Faded Embers
by Leider Hosen
Summary: As the legends foretell, the end of the Age of Fire draws near, and it is the duty of the Ashen One to serve as a vessel for souls, traversing the deadly lands of Lothric and returning the Lords of Cinder to their thrones. This is not that story. [AU]
1. The Champion

A/N: Hello folks, here I am again (and it didn't even take a century either)

 **YA MUTHA FUCKA! I'M STILL WAITING FOR DAUGHTERS DLC FUCKASS!**

Yeah, yeah, I know, I have a horrible tendency to start projects, then stop abruptly never to return. Daughters will be done soon. I already have the entire rest of it planned out, just need to commit it to print.

Unfortunately, I had another Fiction planned in the background, which was going to debut after Daughters of the Abyss was done, but I've gotten so distracted by the inspiration I get mad paralysis when I try to sit down and work on Daughters. School's out for now, so I have the whole summer to work on my own projects, I've just been crashed out in the aftermath of the exams.

I have no plans of dropping my fictions for an entire year straight again. I just really, really lost my drive somewhere after the gang broke up, and I'm starting to find it again. My upload schedule has always been horribly inconsistent, but I want Daughters to be finished relatively soon, with this new fiction kicking off on the side, and possibly Dragon Souls (no, it's not a dead fiction, I totes swear).

Now, with that out of the way, the actual Fiction:

This is an Alternate Universe. Most everything is the same unless otherwise noted, but it should be apparent where the major deviations take place. The setting is VERY near future, so a few months to a couple years after the start of the game, but most everything is the same up until the deviations.

Unlike most of my other fics, I'm putting some pretty extensive research into the Lore as I go along to make sure it's as loyal to the characters and canon as possible, liberties will be taken as needed.

A small thing, but noticeable, is that a lot of characters will seem a lot… smaller, than in-game. That's because I'm going re-size some of the characters, since it's no secret Miyazaki loves human characters that stand as tall as an ice cream truck for dramatic effect, and I'm going to try for a more grounded and realistic interpretation.

It shouldn't impact things too much, just don't be surprised when the size differences are especially noticeable.

* * *

The clash of swords. Even now, days later, the banging of metal on metal continued to disturb the thoughts of the High Priestess. Emma slumped in her chair, the reek of ash curling towards her nostrils as her cathedral chamber quietly smoldered, burnt to cinders by arcane flame.

As the flickering embers silently nestled against the wood and cloth, trying to find a place to continue burning, Emma could not tear her eyes from the door, the thin shaft of sunlight casting a warm glow on the stone as the sounds of raging battle echoed over the city streets. Emma was unsure of what sound would frighten her the most: the sounds of soldiers running up the steps, closing in, or the sound of silence, the minions of the Deep finally ready to break the front line of defense, one last time.

Her dark hood shifted to the side as a heavy figure slid down the ladder, hitting the stone floor near her. She saw his blood-stained steel boots before she saw his hollowed face, her gaze focused on the layer of soot covering the ground.

"My lady, it isn't safe for you here."

Emma said nothing, her weary bones slumped in their resting spot as she exhaled a deep, forlorn sigh.

"My lady…"

"I heard you." She replied, getting up from her seat, the Knight-Captain taking her arm and leading her to the ladder, Emma grunting with effort as she climbed up, hauling herself to the balcony overlooking the cathedral hall. She looked down towards the door one more time, hoping she would finally see the silhouette of the promised hero. All she saw was an empty wedge of light, the Priestess turning away and following Harold deeper into the palace, the clash of knights fading into a chorus of moaning, sobbing men.

The Captain of Lothric's guard was a tall, gaunt figure, his visor peeking open so he could dab a cloth on his head as he walked along with her, his dark mustache matted to his face as profuse sweat dripped down. She could barely meet the eyes of Lothric's injured guard as she strode down the halls. Some men had armor, a great deal had none, everyone adorned with bandages or missing limbs. The few who still had Estus were holding onto it, seeing if their wounds could be remedied by traditional means to save on their precious stores. They were slumped against the walls, barely able to sleep for fear and pain. They all looked up to her, the High Priestess one of the eldest, most respected attendants of Lothric's royal palace, representing the third pillar of rule.

There were no comforts she could offer them. She had been holding onto the spark of divine power in her breast, not sharing a shred, knowing what she had to do if things got any more desperate. In the late hours of the night, she wondered when she began thinking this way, so coldly denying comfort to her people to save her strength. It reminded her of darker times past… though these days were looking no brighter.

The war erupted within mere hours, taking all by surprise. Lothric was blighted by vile beasts of the Boreal Valley, Emma barely escaping with her life as the city streets were faced with an outbreak of violence, hundreds of knights of the Deep Cathedral seemingly spinning from the ether and assaulting every Lothric soldier in sight, one particularly grotesque monstrosity appearing in the cathedral and attempting to slay the High Priestess herself, Emma escaping with the aid of a few knights drawn out by the attackers.

To their horror, the attack on the city was merely a diversion to startle the guardians of Lothric. A second strike came from within as the sorcerers of the Grand Archives, led by one of the Preacher Twins, turned on the royal guard, felling them with hails of crystal sorceries, which shredded their steel armor like paper.

Emma knew well that the Crystal Sages and their court of sorcerers had a fine relationship with Irithyll that long predated Emma and the Prince's time, but she didn't believe they would be tenacious enough to launch such a bold attack.

It was this fatal misjudgment that lead to a great portion of Lothric Castle being conquered and the Royal Guard slaughtered by an unrelenting assault. They were able to rally and drive the rebels from the castle, but the cost was vast, too vast for it to possibly be called a victory.

If that were not enough, the dire heretics, the inhuman Winged Knights, broke into the palace, and when they found the feathered Gertrude dead, they went into a rage, massacring the Lothric Knights and Scholars, vanishing when the fighting reached its peak, no doubt pulling back to regroup.

At length, they reached a room with several haggard, beaten commanders and generals, a few missing from the table, either fighting, missing, or worse, defected.

"What news do you have of the outside?" Harold asked, the leader of the scouts across the table answering in a plain, measured tone,

"Nothing good," he gestured to a map as he spoke, "We're still unsure of how they were able to breach the city so quickly. They must have used Deep sorceries to move them within our borders, that, or they were already within the walls, scaling a few at a time. The Crystal Sage and his court sorcerers appear to have entrenched themselves on the rooftops here, here, and here, and are offering support the advance. The heretical Winged Knights have been sighted around these districts here, and are proving nigh insurmountable foes for our men," he added, trembling, "their assault has, thus far, been highly effective. Excluding the heretical angel worshippers, the minions of Irithyll are very close to outnumbering our forces, and while their regular footmen are roughly equal to ours, their elites have proven thus far- unstoppable."

"The only thing I wonder is what madness would possess Irithyll to have war with Lothric in the first place!" Another chimed, "This is a holy city, the nexus of the lands of the Lords."

"It's the Princes." Another said, "They're going to feed the twins to The Devourer, for certain."

"I agree." Emma nodded grimly, "Let's not forget these are the same people that conquered Anor Londo. Aldrich has a heart as black and cold as the lands he presides over. His delusions have turned him against his fellow Lords of Cinder, and the Flame. We cannot allow him to have Prince Lothric."

"I agree wholeheartedly," another said, "but I don't suppose you have a plan that will allow us to hold the city against a ruthless band of murderers and heathens that has thus far annihilated our forces!"

"If we were at full strength, we could win for certain. But they have already dealt a fatal blow to us from within, and now they march on us from all sides."

"Lady Priestess," The lead scout said again, drawing the attention of the rest of the table. "I do have further news, but I'm afraid-"

"Spit it out boy." A general cut,

"Well," He gulped, "We spotted a large force in motion in the southern districts, following a path cleared by the initial advance. They match the description of the knights of Irithyll of the Boreal Valley, flanked on both sides by inhumanly tall knights clad in silver. At their head is a tall stranger in tattered garb, wielding a bright blue Longsword in one hand and a burning Greatsword in the other."

"The Pontiff!?" Emma exclaimed, "He's here?" Everyone in the room was white as snow, the tired, ambling gaze on their face replaced by wide-eyed terror.

"The Tyrant-King himself." Someone said,

"There's no way we can repel a force that powerful. The man, no, monster, will rip us apart, and that's not to mention the knights of Anor Londo. These were the servitors of the Lord of Sunlight himself, the slayers of dragons. We are only men."

Emma clasped a hand to her heart, feeling an intense burning in her chest, fearing for her health if she got any more stressed. At the same time though, she felt a new resolve, her gaze hardening as the gentle side of her, which she had cultivated over the years, slid away.

Waiting for the Unkindled One to arrive would simply not do, anymore.

"So be it." Emma said, drawing the eyes of Lothric's weary guard.

"My lady-"

"If we cannot hold this castle, then we must flee." She said, "What matters is keeping that devil far away from Prince Lothric. The Lords of Cinder, and the blessed blood of Lothric, must be preserved. We will rally the last of the forces we have and use them to cover the princes' escape, through the underground catacombs. The forests surrounding Farron are dense, and the savage Ghru and the outcasts of the Legion defend it well. We will find safe haven among the ruins."

"That's suicide!" A captain shouted, "If we cannot hold the castle, what makes you believe we could possibly survive out there in the wild!"

"The proud knights of Lothric never-"

"They _will_ flee the battle, this day. Or this castle will be our tomb." Emma snapped, "We are afforded no other option. The denizens of Farron are the only allies we can call on, Lothric is no longer safe, and territories beyond are already bewitched by the accursed Cathedral of the Deep."

"What gives you the right to command us?" Another barked, "You are none but a haggard old woman, and a priestess at that. You have no claim to rule Lothric's armies."

"You forget yourself." Emma growled, her icy stare silencing the discontented captains. "I am High Priestess of this kingdom, mentor to the Princes, the bearer of Lothric's Sacred Light, the weaver of divine tales and miracles, the third pillar of rule. I have sworn to defend the royal family and seek guidance from the gods in times of great hardship, this decree passed from the King and Queen themselves. Should Lothric be in dire straits, should our armies topple and resolve falter, it is _my word_ that surpasses all others, as it is my responsibility to see our holy lineage endures. Indeed, I am old, and no soldier, but time has not addled my mind that greatly, and there is might in these old bones yet."

The commune was silent, Emma rocking back and forth as she breathed deeply, unable to recall the last time she found herself shouldering the Princes in such a direct manner. Harold put a hand on her shoulder,

"We stand with you, my Lady." He said, "but, those paths are treacherous. No doubt the Tyrant-King knows of them, the words of cowardly traitors guiding him. The horrors of the Boreal Valley may make progress impossible. We are in desperate need of one who can spearhead such an effort."

"Indeed." Emma nodded, "We need a champion, a warrior of great skill. Beyond that, one who can harness the black magics that swirl around us, for reasons that will be revealed in due time. Thankfully," she added, "I know where we can find both. The keys to our last hopes lie far beneath us, within this very castle, but have precious little time. The Tyrant and his armies draw close. I need a garrison of loyal knights to take me into the domain of Oceiros-"

'Oceiros? The Consumed King?"

"The same. I know that area remains in the clutches of the Deep, and our assassins have failed to dispatch the old King. It will take our finest holy knights to pierce the veil at my side."

"The 8th Legion can spare a regiment or two." Harold offered, "I was going to send them out to face the Tyrant, but if you have need of loyal souls, we will take your side."

"How much time can the rest of you secure for our journey?"

"Not nearly enough." A gruff voice replied, "But, if this is to be our last mission, so be it. Our legions will do everything in our power to hobble the beasts of Irithyll. Perhaps… one hour, at the best."

"Then we will return to the Princes and nobles, and have them making exodus within a single hour." Emma replied, "May the Sun illuminate the path to victory, and guide our blades in this, our darkest hour."

"Umbasa." A chorus of tired voices, the voices of dead men, resounded.

* * *

 _Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack._

The sound of numerous steel and silver boots striking old stone at once. The symphony like the heartbeat of a vast organism. Born of the chaos of many bodies in motion, an ordered, focused beat.

It had been a horribly long time since Sulyvahn had taken an army into battle. For a great span of time, he simply watched the snows drifting, directing the efforts of the followers of Deep. He knew insufferable boredom in the idle hours, infinite possibility coalescing and spinning through his mind as a vast cosmos while the world stood eerily still.

His swords overflowed with untapped energy, the blades honed to a razor's edge without purpose, his arms aching as they sat at his sides, without need to raise them.

Here, amidst, the burning rubble of a falling empire, the countless screams of agony as innumerable voices cried out in terror and pain, weapons of all weights and shapes pounding eachother…

Here, where the world was consumed by chaos and disorder, the Pontiff felt everything falling into place, the seemingly random actions working themselves into a grander order.

No longer did the world stagnate in the horrid stillness, nothing escaping the Pontiff's senses, even as he drifted within his mind, leading his grand army.

They met little resistance, the armies of Lothric already scattered by the initial assault. This outcome was fairly predictable. They were aware of his deeds in Anor Londo, but instead of declaring an attack on Irithyll, they simply allowed it, unable to justify attacking a Lord of Cinder over an old, dejected god long past his prime. Gwyndolin was an embarrassment, Lothric was too proud to associate the pantheon of the sun with him.

It was clear to the Pontiff they had an artificially high sense of self, believed they were above an attack, despite all the enemies around them, and allowed their haughty attitude to breed complacency and incompetence.

It was almost disappointing. Sulyvahn spent a great deal of effort planning their strike, but it looked as though more than half his forces, and the Pontiff himself, wouldn't even see combat for how fast the holy knights were toppling.

Near the final stretch to the palace, a figure materialized in front of Sulyvahn, the Pontiff recognizing his presence before he could fully appear in a fluttering of tattered black cloak.

The Crystal Sage was low to the ground, his body hunched around a crystal ball radiating with soul light, his deformed mask obscured by a great, broad hat tilted in such a way Sulyvahn could barely see the wild coattails trailing behind him.

"Welcome, friend." The Sage said in a gurgling voice, "It is as you asked. The deed is nearly done."

"So it is." The Pontiff nodded, "But, I will not consider it a total victory until the Princes are properly detained."

"Of course." The Sage nodded, "On behalf of the scholars of the Grand Archives, we are pleased to repay Irithyll for the knowledge their school has offered us."

"The pleasure is mine. Do you have an accurate estimation of their remaining strength?"

"Five cohorts, nearly one-half a legion, and most of their officers. One Cohort of elite knights, four cohorts of dregs. Another four cohorts injured, three of them divine knights."

"Then I was wrong, Lothric has not lost four legions in battle thus far, but six." The Pontiff said, "Should they rally with their auxiliary abroad, they will have nearly three and a half fighting legions."

"At this rate, it's less of a war than a massacre." His lieutenant spoke, "Why not spare this talk, and crush them now?"

"Even still," Sulyvahn said, gazing forward, though the subordinate to his left could feel the reprimand, "This battle is not won yet. Afterall, the souls who stand after all others falter, the embers that burn when the flame has subsided, are the brightest of them all. I believed I taught you better, Hugo."

The sorcerous knight at his side shifted in place, the Pontiff knowing his sensitivity, standing at the head of the prestigious army of Anor Londo.

Sulyvahn continued, "What of the Black Hands? I have heard tell that Leonhard has joined that pseudo-religious cult in the Deep Cathedral. That leaves two more."

"Gotthard is still missing, out in the lands beyond Lothric." The Sage said, "I find it highly doubtful he will be taking part in this battle."

"And the Black Hand Kamui?"

The Sage shifted uncomfortably,

"The Daughter of Crystal caught him in a surprise attack just before your invasion, as per her instructions. However, Kamui was somehow able to perceive the betrayal and avoid fatal injury, using his higher senses. I know little of what happened, but our dear Kreimhild barely survived and was narrowly rescued at the cost of a dozen crystal scholars. Her wounds are still being nursed, they simply refuse to heal. Afterall, those very swords were used to cut down demons, long ago. He aided in taking the Archives from us, and has been defending the way to the Princes since."

"I see, that is unfortunate." Sulyvahn said, "I have brought my own clerics, they will see to it Kreimhild properly recovers. I would say I'm surprised your finest student was bested by a single, wounded warrior, but the Black Hands can barely be called 'warrior', that would imply they fall in line with their peers."

"Allow me, Pontiff." Hugo said, shifting in agitation, "I will dispatch this-"

"No. You will not." Sulyvahn said, feeling his subordinate tensing in frustration, "I will not waste my blood on a warrior that cannot be defeated by ordinary knights. If granted the opportunity, I will dispatch Kamui myself. Are you aware of any further obstacles?"

"No, fair Pontiff." The Sage shook his head, "No-one. However, I have noticed, last I saw, they appear to be digging in much harder than earlier. They seem intent on keeping you out."

"Emma will have taken charge of Lothric castle by now. She has the authority with the bloodline in such mortal danger, and I know she is wise enough to know they cannot hold their position long. I have the tunnels below Lothric under watch, but, Lothric castle is ancient, and filled with secrets. She's planning something, and doesn't want to be interrupted."

"I agree. Shall I send my sorcerers after her?" The Sage perked up, leaning up to expose his shining eyes, "We have a new weapon. A bewitched armor, I mean to use it to avenge my fellow scholars, candle-bearers of the pale dragon."

Sulyvahn paused, weighing the risk,

"No. You, your sorcerers, and most importantly, your knowledge, are too precious to waste further. Cover our advance, stay out of harm."

The Sage nodded, "As you wish, Pontiff." He seemed to sink through the floor, the stone enveloping him as he dropped through the ground, cloak flapping in the air as it was drawn up by the wind, before it too sunk below.

Sulyvahn drew his longsword, the deep blue, nearly black energy pouring from its cold silver as he raised it skyward, thrusting it forth.

"Knights of Irithyll, unleash the wrath of Deep upon them! Leave none alive!"

…

Emma hurried herself down the hall, past the rows of columns, the footfalls of the soldiers around her echoing through the lavish corridors, soon to be overrun by the Boreal fiends. The sounds of fighting continued, and only seemed to get closer by the minute, Emma anxiously trying to hold her fastest pace as they left the main compound and entered the forbidden west wing, where the old king Oceiros dwelt.

Over the years, since he was consumed by madness and perverted into a horrid abomination by the Crystal Sages, many assassins attempted to destroy the old king, but all of them were lost. The only elite assassins who didn't make an attempt were the Black Hands, who politely refused the order.

Against their judgment, Emma dissuaded Lothric's generals from reprimanding the three for such insubordination. She remembered as though it were yesterday the oath they swore to the royal family, it was only natural they would refuse to slay their former master after such a deep pledge. Alas, respecting tradition only succeeded in making their task far more arduous, in this instance.

According to hushed rumors, Oceiros attempted to find "moonlight", of which Seathe the Paledrake was master. While he never found it, he did capture the strength of dragons, if only a portion, in his quest to become the unyielding, invincible king holy Lothric deserved.

With their most elite guard absent, and no greater allies to call on, Emma and her harrowed knights would have to succeed where all others failed, and slay this "dragon" king.

The smell of pungent decay nearly knocked Emma from her feet, the guardians of Lothric stepping into the western courtyard, and bearing witness to a festering garden, toxic sludge overflowing garden channels and lapping at the shores of barren flowerbeds and petrified trees, all resting in the shadows of the high walls.

Cathedral knights could be seen on the prowl, their heavy iron armor shifting as they strode over the terraces, watching over the creatures of the deep, which Oceiros had been inducted into.

"Disgusting." Harold grimaced, "I can't believe we allowed this mess to well up in our borders."

"You may not have to worry for long." Emma replied, gingerly treading down some stairs, the others in tow, "If we fail to pass this domain, then all will be lost."

As they neared the base, a few cathedral knights sprung out from the corners. Charging the high priestess with their great weapons, Harold trying to jump ahead of her,

"My Lady!"

A Cathedral Knight raised his blade preparing to strike, Emma closing her eyes a moment, feeling a great force in her soul, her chest feeling like a great daemon was pressing outwards from the inside.

She opened them, thrusting her palm out. The knight ahead of her looked as though he were smashed by a siege engine, his chest getting crushed as he was sent flying into the banister at the base of the steps with the shutter of twisting metal.

The hesitation of the other two was only an instant, but Emma was already reaching out, her force drawing a knight off his feet to eye level, Emma thrusting her second palm out, the metal collar on his neck screeching as his helm was pushed all the way back, his head nearly removed as he dropped to the ground.

The last knight scrambled back, raising his greatshield as Emma predicted, her hand glowing with silver light. She thrust forward, projecting a lance of sacred light, the holy javelin breeching the steel like a red hot iron through wicker. The knight stumbled back, dropping his mace to clutch the smoldering hole in his chest.

Emma brought both hands up, clutching the air around the desired point, feeling the pressure on her palms. She twisted, the knight's helm following her hands like a screw leaving a socket, turning backwards with a sickening crunch, the knight clutching his neck an instant, before falling to the side.

She heard the crack of a bowstring, Emma throwing her arms up on reflex, the wood and steel glancing off the miraculous barrier and falling to the ground. The high priestess looked to the higher level, seeing an archer with a crossbow readying another shot.

Emma blinked, her body going numb as all sensation left her, a silver ring appearing around her feet. The priestess vanished, appearing on the wall by the cathedral knight in a flash of light. The warrior of the deep threw down his bow in panic, reaching for his weapon.

He never caught it, Emma whipping him clear off the roof, his screams echoing down the sides of the walls as she teleported back down.

"My lady…" Harold exclaimed, the knights rallying to her side.

"There's further to go," Emma snapped, moving ahead, "there's no time to gawk."

Her fatigue was nearly overwhelmed by her indignation. She was high priestess, one of the three pillars of rule. She nursed Lothric with her own breast long before she trained him and Lorian to wield the sacred light, mastering it herself before they were even conceived, and was entrusted with their very lives as a second mother when the queen vanished.

She had no intentions of failing her duties so easily.

As the knights traversed the gardens, keeping their weapons at the ready, their red cloaks rustling as they closed in on the second unit of cathedral knights, Emma found herself limping, wheezing with effort to breathe. Her spirits felt drained as she produced an ashen flask from her cloak, sipping some of the luminous blue liquid within. It tasted of coldness and left a heavy weight in her stomach, but it made her feel a little better, her weary body picking up its pace a little, the pain of breathing lessened.

She found herself cursing her weakness. Some beings were ageless, the passing eras barely leaving a blemish. Emma was not one of them. Just a brief exercise of her power, after shoring her soul for many days, and she was already having trouble walking, though she tried hard to hide that fact as she staggered along.

She had never felt more impotent as the knights of Lothric clashed with those of the deep, Emma feeling the crash of blessed metal on blessed metal as they tore into eachother, their fighting styles nearly identical as they probed eachother for weakness from behind their sturdy shields, spears jabbing for the legs and shoulders, swords hacking, and greatswords landing crushing blows on great iron shields.

Emma summoned the sacred light, blasting away from behind her loyal knights, the lances focusing on the heads of her enemies, her aim unfailing. The cathedral knights were swiftly dispatched, Harold kicking a twitching one in the side of the head.

"Bloody heretics." He growled, Emma coming up from behind, the old priestess tiring further. Emma drunk more ashen Estus in kind, her soul replenishing, but the fatigue persisted.

"Are you alright, my Lady?" Harold asked, Emma choking as she tried to gasp for air between sips, finally letting the flask down and panting,

"I'm old, not feeble." Emma lied, trying to strand straight as she went past the other knights, heading towards an open staircase, leading further below.

Emma tread lightly, afraid of slipping on the stone steps, when she head unearthly screaming.

"What in the blazes of Chaos?" One of them muttered, the wailing growing in intensity as they stepped past brambles and vines growing around the disused corridor. It seemed to scream itself hoarse, taking a quick breath, before uttering another inhuman wail.

"The Consumed King draws near." Emma murmured, "Prepare yourselves, and may the sun watch over us." The knights of Lothric drew their talismans over their blades, the steel glowing a bright silver with fainter blue hues, the light radiating healing warmth, Emma raising her hands, sacred light trailing between them.

They reached the base of the steps, striding through the doorway. The walls and roof were coming apart, several patches of collapsed rubble littering the corridor with vines and growths hanging down from the ceiling. Darkness hung at the corners and along the walls, the torches long burned out, mist sweeping along the floor.

The wails shook Emma to her core, cold sweat beading down her face as the creature at the far side cried in agony. At once, it stopped, the hunched figure leaning up and peaking at her over his shoulder. Emma's heart felt sickly, seeing the once proud king reduced to such a state. His limbs were stretched painfully long, his arms and legs meeting twisted, reptilian hands and feet adorned with long talons, a long, whip-like tail curled around him. Her eyes followed his spine, numerous growths resembling weeds following the arch of his back, his skin transparent, sickly pale hide that slightly shimmered in the gloom.

"Oh, Oceiros," Emma moaned as he continued to turn towards them, "What did those treacherous sages do to you?" His face was barely recognizable as human, replaced by a lizard's snout, several whiskers resting under his chin, his eyes nothing but black holes in his skull beneath long, arced horns. She tried to see the face of her former king, but found not a scrap.

"Ah, you ignorant slaves." The Consumed King muttered, his voice distorted, like he had water in his throat, "Finally taken notice, have you? Of the power of my beloved Ocelotte, child of dragons."

"What's he on about?" Harold murmured, the Consumed King rising, pushing himself up with one arm while cradling some unseen thing in the other.

"Well, I will not give him up, for he is all that I have." He growled, feeling for a great staff, grasping it and pushing himself to his feet, looming over his former knights, his arm still cradling the air. Emma sighed mournfully,

"Gods forgive what I must do." She stepped forward, her knights in tow, forming a barrier around her and advancing on the old king. What was once called Oceiros hobbled towards them, supporting himself by his staff, sniffing them out.

As the knights drew close, the Consumed King lashed his tail at them, the limb glancing off their shields, the knights jabbing at it as it passed, pale blood seeping from the wounds. Oceiros winced, bashing one with his staff, the spearmen catching it with his greatshield, the knight visibly wincing with effort to hold the tall being back, the shield denting as the rod was repelled.

Emma lanced Oceiros in the side with a bolt of light, the king staggering back, sweeping his staff back and forth as he retreated, knocking a few knights off their feet, Emma nearly getting struck as he pulled back, her knights rallying to defend her.

"Oh, my dear Ocelotte." He mumbled, glancing blindly down at the "child" nestled in his arm, drawing it closer, "Where have you gone? Are you hiding from me?" He swung wildly at the Lothric knights, the stone creaking with each missed strike.

"You are a child of dragons, what could you possibly have to fear. Come out, come out, there's no need to be afraid!" He cried desperately, shifting with agitation. Emma struck the beast with another bolt of sacred light, his side peeling open and releasing a torrent of pale blood. The king staggered, crying out, her knights closing in as he continued to strike at them, Lothric's knights surrounding him on all sides.

Finally, one of them closed in, drawing his blade back in a mighty swing, slicing his arm open and leaving a gash in his torso. Oceiros recoiled back, his left arm dropping the invisible figure, slain by the blade.

" _ **Ocelotte!**_ " He screamed, his roar trailing into a draconic howl as he dropped onto all fours. He lunged so fast they had barely any time to react as he broke right through the defensive barrier, spinning on the spot, his tail scaring their metal armor.

The Consumed King charged them again, knocking a knight to the ground and immediately biting into him, the knight crying out as the would be dragon tore into his flesh, thrashing him around. His cohorts stabbed the king in the side, Oceiros lunging again, escaping their reach, clinging to the debris with his talons as he ran around, his claws sweeping side to side, dust and rock getting thrown up by the violent motions as he moved. The knights tried to hold the rampaging beast back while striking at him, but it was proving to be a difficult task as he tore their guard apart, his frenzy of claws and teeth overpowering them.

He jumped into the air, the small buds of wings on his back carrying him as he swooped down, spraying viscous blue fluid in place of fire.

The knights leapt to either side of the path, one of their injured unable to leap far enough, the unnatural substance catching his leg as he sprung to the side. Moments after settling, the fluid burst into growths of pale crystal, the knight shrieking as his leg was torn apart from the outside in by crystal growths, the floor steam as crystal burst across it.

The Consumed King intercepted the knight, his hand crashing down his chest, the talons tearing through the platemail as Oceiros bit down on his head. He let go and screamed as several blades ripped into his side, the Consumed King spinning around with enough force to knock them back with his tail, Oceiros slashing blindly at the floor as the knights on his other side closed the distance, this time aiming for the legs.

A spearmen lodged the blade deeply into the knee, Oceiros slashing at him, getting stopped by a wall of shields, the knights on the floor recovering as Oceiros continued to try and pry through the metal wall. He lost an arm as a lighting imbued greatsword buried itself within, Oceiros throwing his head around and attempting to use his crystal breath, but as he spewed the deadly concoction, it froze midair and was forced back down his throat by an unseen barrier, Emma focusing herself on the task.

The screaming beast gagged, his throat bursting as numerous crystals fractured within him, blades of icy gemstone shooting out from within, the Consumed King clawing at his neck, falling to the ground in convulsions.

A great blade was raised above him, the knight swinging the greatsword down with the force and guidance of an executioner's axe.

Everything went silent.

Emma, and most of the other knights, fell to the ground, many defenders taking the little Estus they could gather and taking deep sips to heal fractured bones and deep gashes, their armor in tatters after wrestling with the great monster.

The sigh of relief was very short lived, but they had finally put the old king out of his misery, and at least Emma and most of the knights escaped with their life.

Oceiros was an old fool, unfit to be a king or a dragon, and for that, most of them would remain in the fight, but there were others who had not returned to their feet, and never would. The High Priestess was deeply shaken by that. Who could be trusted, if even their king had fallen to such vile depths?

Emma got back on her feet, limping to the corpse of the Consumed King and reaching out. She withdrew the small, light blue soul from its vessel, its coldness making her shutter as she guided it into her bosom. Fallen or not, the king's soul deserved rest, and she certainly wasn't going to leave it behind for the Tyrant-King. Who knew what unspeakable things Sulyvahn would do with any great soul he found.

"Come on, the way is clear now." She called, Lothric's defenders getting to their feet shakily, following behind her as she lead them across the room. The corridors went a fair way, though she didn't believe the knights of the deep had infiltrated them yet. These were separated from the tunnels used to escape in times of crisis, and served a far different purpose.

The air grew deathly cold, wind beginning to pick up as they emerged from the tunnels. The sound of their footsteps stopped echoing as they reached an open space, blacker than the darkest night past the line of torches. Emma raised her hand, a glowing orb materializing to grant them guidance, the group moving in unison, huddled in the sphere of light. The wind continued to blow softly, waking over an unseen cliff, the area littered with barren trees and innumerable gravestones, all of them grey and crumbling to dust with age.

The most unnerving thing was the silence. Nothing but the wind, and their own footsteps could be heard as they took the cobblestone path, most of the rocks subsumed by the damp mud, leaving a dirt path through the tough grasses.

"What is this place?" Harold asked, peaking his visor open again, "This can't be the outside, it was daylight mere moments ago. And we can't be underground either, this wind…"

"Indeed, this realm exists outside our own." She said, "Time and space are convoluted, the timelines sprawling outwards, overlapping and interweaving with one another, just as the lands do. So much so, you can step into different points in space and time, if you have the right foothold and know the path."

"So, this is…"

"Lothric. But not the Lothric we departed. These untended graves lie somewhere in the distant past, before the last linking of the fire, and long after the flame was allowed to dwindle. This realm is deathly still. Every soul is slumbering, and not a trace of light remains."

"I don't like it here, we should leave."

"Soon." Emma replied, "The royal family has used the shrine occupying these graves as a place to safely conceal numerous relics otherwise too dangerous to withhold. I am in need of a few, that is why we are here."

"Are you sure that is wise?"

"What choice do we have? If we do not find a way to rouse the Lords of Cinder from their madness and defend the prince, this desolation will befall our own realm."

"Wait, rouse the Lords of Cinder?"

"All will be revealed at the proper time." Emma said, stepping through a gateway, "you must trust me." The knights followed Emma to the center of the area, their feet splashing in the few inches of water filling the ruin, the High Priestess seeing Harold hesitating from the corner of her eye.

The knights were struck by the shine before them, a circle of walls surrounding a pond, with a second stone plate in the center of that, many gently burning candles offering a small bit of light in the blackness.

What gave them pause was the guardian of the shrine, kneeling on one knee in his resting place. Even sitting down, the knights could sense how massive the warrior was, his massive shoulders and arms clad in antiquated, but impossibly strong cast iron armor giving him the silhouette of a boulder. His enchanted halberd, completely unphased by the passage of time, stood taller than the knight's themselves, the tip buried in the solid rock like a knife sunk into a slab of butter.

The guardian rose, towering head and shoulders above Harold, who was drawing his sword, Emma putting her hand out, motioning for him to leave it sheathed, as the Champion meant them no harm. His footsteps echoed loudly in the silence as he went to stand before Emma, the shadows curling around the engravings chiseled all over him, his face a mask of cold iron.

"Gundyr," Emma greeted, the name sending a ripple of whispers through the knights, "I am Emma, the present High Priestess of Lothric. I don't believe I have had the honor of meeting you. It has been long since any of the pillars have visited the Graves."

The towering knight gave a nod of respect, replying in a deep, quiet tone,

"Aye, it has." He surveyed the group of knights circling their Lady, "I assumed it was forbidden your knights enter these hallowed grounds. There are many terrible things that rest here."

"It was necessary. Gundyr, Lothric is besieged by terrible forces of darkness. The time has come for you to depart this shrine, and join the fight."

The great warrior hesitated,

"This is a solemn duty I carry out, one I have sworn a lifetime-"

"By my rite as High Priestess," Emma interrupted, "and protector of Lothric's holy blood, I release that obligation." Emma took a breath, "The Third pillar would believe me foolish for calling on you. They consider you a failure, but I know better. Lothric needs a Champion, even if that champion is from the distant past. Join us in this, our darkest hour, and your debt will be repaid."

Emma found it very hard to read Gundyr's thoughts, his mask, modeled the elder King Doran, carrying the same blank expression as it did all those years ago, before her time, but she could sense his confliction.

"I have been away a long, long time." He mused, "I have fought countless ashen champions, in countless timelines in my memories, but I have not raised my own hand for years. Are you certain?"

"Absolutely." Emma nodded, "You have my word. Fight for us now, and you may depart to whatever land you chose. You will owe nothing to the world above."

Gundyr turned from her, walking away. He stood over the candles, grasping his halberd and pulling it from the rock, sheets of dust falling from the tip, still sharp as ever.

"I will fight."


	2. Exodus

A/N: Here I am with another chapter of this (finally), nothing like a conga line of bastard meta PvPers and trying to come up with ideas for a project with Soufflé to get me in the mood. I really want to write this up as a long epic, I have many ideas in store. Since last chapter, there are a few amendments I would like to make (credit where it is due, you know who you are):

Ocelotte the Dragon Child: This was my fuckup. You see, I interpreted "Ocelotte" as being imaginary, and that the "Child of Dragons" was Oceiros, who fever-dreamed this dragon child up and projected himself onto, since he was unable to become a true moonlight dragon in his quest to be Super-king McAwesome. Essentially, I saw Ocelotte to be a bastardization of "Oceiros", and the tragedy was that the king no longer recognized himself.

I was wrong. Ocelotte (With an L, not an R, I had the subtitles off and honestly I heard it with an R. Since it's a Japanese game, I thought it was just a case of Engrish and went with it) is absolutely real, the Divine Blessing confirms as much. So now I have a super important character I need to make a place in the story for. Fuck me, right?

Champion Gundyr's backstory: Well, I guess me and Souffle are even now (jokes on you, I only had to revise the end of ONE chapter, ha!). The Prisoner's Chain gave me the entire idea that Gundyr became sheathe against his will, and that he was in reality a prisoner the entire time, who went down fighting for what he believed in, as the ring said.

Well, the Champion Soul directly contradicts the idea he was forced to become the sheathe of the Coiled Sword. He was made a prisoner before he got to Firelink, and CHOSE to become the sheathe completely of his own volition once he got out of imprisonment.

I would say exactly what my thoughts are, but that would be very redundant since it's all going to be explained in the actual story.

As for my aborted excuse for dialogue… I just suck, but that's okay because I have the power of the almighty delete button.

That about covers it. Also, "All Drums Go to Hell" fits Gundyr's fighting style very well for some reason.

* * *

The light shown dim in the bedchamber adorning the very top of the castle of Lothric, filtering through the high, stained blue window above the bed and cascading through the dusty windows along the wall. The tattered red carpet sprawling past the pillars, shattered chairs and furniture piled in disuse, was the only streak of color in the otherwise depressingly grey room, like the interior was situated beneath a raincloud.

Lothric shifted uncomfortably on his pale blue bedsheet, his sores aching as he did so, his coarse robes rubbing on his skin while the layers of grime were left untended, making Lothric's skin feel chilled and itchy in the gloom. He hadn't been bathed properly in awhile, and that was to say nothing of getting to his chamber pot. All his servants had been absent, even Emma, his chief caretaker who usually attended to such matters, was missing.

At first, he believed it was his people simply abandoning him for his refusal to burn for the gods who'd cursed him so, then he started to think the Ashen One of legend had come for him, tearing his way through the castle, but he didn't arrive. It was only after a few days of insufferable silence he was visited by his faithful Black Hand, who'd told him the news.

The Boreal Valley had laid siege to Irithyll, and all the strength Lothric had to give was dedicated to holding them off. Prince Lothric scoffed then, certain his holy knights would be able to competently protect him, but he thought wrong. The visits to check on him became fewer and fewer, until it was certain they hadn't a moment to tend to their Prince.

Lothric set his gaze to the divine figure overlooking the hall at his feet, staring with the intensity of a falcon, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of distress. Lorian sat on his knees, as he usually did, supporting himself by his pointed greatsword, the fissures in the layered steel exuding jets of flame that scorched the floor where the tip connected, his black-dyed armor granting him the semblance of a dark spirit as it reflected the flames of Chaos.

At least the Prince knew his dear brother was there. Even if every last one of the foolish denizens of his kingdom fell and every demon of the Boreal Velley set upon him, his faithful sword would protect him from harm.

It was moments of discomfort like this Lothric wished his beloved elder brother still had his voice, to tell Lothric it was going to be alright, to soothe him, but that was too much to ask of the malign gods. His presence was enough, though.

The front door creaked open, a pale ray of unfiltered sunlight creeping into Lothric's chamber, the prince tensing a moment, his emaciated hands grasping his bedsheets. Lorian raised himself higher, but rested as the familiar hunter strode in, his broad hat and black cloak framing him as he closed the door again, latching the bolts and striding towards the prince. His swords glinted at his side as he took a knee, his cloak in tatters and partially burned from his battles.

"Your Highness," he spoke in his measured, eastern tone, "The Boreal Valley has broken through the gates. We are rallying at every point, and our dragons feast on their flesh. But, that may not be enough, a group of them will be arriving very soon."

Prince Lothric scowled,

"Have you any good news, Kamui?"

"None that I can say, my Prince. We are trying our best. I apologize for the inconvenience." He added politely, "I have left the front lines to aide you personally, sire. On my honor as a Black-"

"Why? Do you believe my brother is not enough to protect me?"

"Of course not, Sire."

"Then begone. I want to be left alone."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that." Kamui said, tilting his hat up, revealing the intense, narrow eyes set on his pointed features as he faced his Prince, "The second pillar of rule has been cast out for their treachery, but the First and Third Pillars have convened. I am sorry, but you no longer hold power over Lothric."

"I _am_ Lothric!" The Prince snapped, "I don't care if you voted on the matter or not, I am your Prince."

"Yes, your majesty. But, you are not the king, not yet." He said, "The Pillars and noble houses have gathered all they can spare, and chosen to exercise their rights. They have formally declared war on Irithyll. As Lothric has no king, the senate council is the supreme authority."

"Yes, I suppose they are." Lothric growled, "You have been ordered to defend me personally?"

"To the last, sire." Kamui replied politely, bowing his head, "We will defend you with everything we have, in whatever manner deemed proper and necessary."

The Prince sighed heavily. No matter how high he rose, Emma refused to stop meddling in his affairs.

Sounds of struggle started to drum up outside, Kamui facing the doors with the same cold ferocity as Lorian, never wavering as they drew close to the keep, until it was just outside the door, the skirmish going silent.

Kamui drew his blades; first his great katana, then his more subtle, but equally sharp, wakizashi, holding them to his sides, his bow and arrows resting on his back, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. There was a bang, then a second crash, before something burst the locks, the door swinging open.

The trespassing knight strode in, his footsteps echoing in the halls, as he wore a solid suit of cast iron which hammered the ground with each step, a great halberd clasped in one hand.

Even from here, Lothric could see how he dwarfed the Black Hand before him, though Kamui didn't flinch.

"Gundyr?" He exclaimed, "What are you doing out of the Graves?"

"Gundyr has been made to fight for Lothric." Emma answered for him, her voice echoing in the bedchamber as she stepped past the Belated Champion, "His services will repay his past debt. The nobility is already prepared to depart," She looked up to the Prince, "We are fleeing the castle."

Lothric was aghast.

"But-"

"I will hear none of it!" Emma snapped, silencing the prince, "We are leaving, immediately."

"Very well." Prince Lothric said, dejected, "But, my brother will carry me." On hearing this, Lorian looked over his shoulder, leaning back as Lothric drug himself up from his covers, pulling himself to his elder brother and climbing to his back, wrapping his frail arms firmly around him and nuzzling his neck for support.

His dear brother vanished, Lothric feeling himself displaced as he was brought to the ground floor, Lorian's sword cracking the stone as he used it to limp along, Kamui close to his side.

The Prince regarded the towering Gundyr as they passed,

"I can't understand why Lady Emma would choose a failed knight to protect me."

"Watch your mouth." Gundyr growled, Lothric flinching at the unexpected hostility, "I was crushing the skulls of Lords under my heel before your mother was conceived."

"Gundyr may have failed to link the First Flame," Emma added, trying to cover for him, as she always did for people that caused insult, "But he was an adversary to the Dark Lords once, and has great experience in fighting them."

Lothric didn't say anything else, though he still found it laughable a legendary failure would be their last hope. Still, he needn't worry too much, so long as Lorian was by his side, he had nothing to fear.

As they left the chamber, into the midday sun, Lothric tightly grasped Lorian's brass armor as he squinted his eyes closed. He couldn't even remember the last time he saw the sky, let alone was brought into the open, the fresh air cycling through his lungs as the warm sunlight burned his face.

It wasn't all unpleasant, but he couldn't say he liked it.

When his eyes started to clear up, he could see numerous foreign knights strewn over the pathway, killed off by Lothric's guardians. He could tell which ones belonged to Gundyr, as some of the bodies were sliced cleanly, while others were smashed to pieces, their armor caved in and torsos gored by the massive halberd trailing at Gundyr's side, his off-hand as bloody as his weapon.

The period of unrest that spawned him was long before the Prince's time, but he'd heard of the Belated Champion in old stories. It seemed the descriptions of his great strength were not so exaggerated afterall.

Whether that would avail anything or not remained to be seen as they began their journey.

* * *

The smells of home drifted in through the window. A smell that made the old thief's nose curl in revulsion.

Living men, woman, and children burning.

It was a stench that absolutely sickened him. Perhaps what made it worse was that, instead of being down below at home, it was up here, where the corruption of the Deep Cathedral didn't reach. Greirat sat against the wall of his cell, listening to the screaming. He wanted so badly to just get out, run back home, if there was a home to run back to.

Sounds of struggling came down the steps, a solider of Lothric tumbling down into the dungeon chamber. He drew a flask of Estus, taking a deep swig, the intense bleeding on his side slowing a little as he backed himself away from the stairwell where heavy footsteps echoed down, the Knight pointing his sword to the unseen enemy up the stairs.

Greirat's timid heart went racing like a mouse being chased by a cat. He knew the Knights of the Cathedral, how bloodthirsty and hedonistic they were, under the scripture of Aldrich.

"Please, let me out!" Greirat yelled, the words slipping, "Don't leave me in here!"

"Quiet you rotten thief!" The knight yelled over his shoulder, though he sounded just as scared as Greirat as the looming assailant thundered down the steps, his expressionless bucket helm spattered with blood as he sprinted after the Lothric knight, his greatshield and enormous mace trailing at his side.

The Lothric knight put his shield up, catching the stroke from the mace, only to cry out as the massive weight nearly toppled him, the Deep knight possessing vigor even greater than the Lothric knights who used miracles to raise their vitality, the holy knight attempting to lash out himself, only for the stroke to get blocked by the greatshield, the steel making a dull thud as the longsword bounced off, the knight narrowly escaping the Deep knight's shield bash.

The Knight tried to strafe, assuming a fighting stance as he backed himself away, finely lunging with a shout, the deep knight stepping to the side and throwing his weight into a great swing in a smooth motion, the tired knight unable to react before his breastplate caved under the blow of the horizontal sweep, the soldier falling back against Greirat's cell.

He leaned up, trying to get his Estus as a shadow fell over him. He had one moment to look up from the ground as the Lothric knight pulled his visor open to take a drink before the head of the mace came down, the sack over Greirat's face getting splattered with blood as the knight's head and most of his collarbone was caved into his stomach, the Deep knight cackling as he wrenched the mace from the twisted, bloodied metal.

Greirat, seeing his chance, seized the shining key from the Lothric knight's back pocket, skittering away from the bars as the Deep knight regarded him, his helm pointing at the keys in Greirat's hand.

"You want out, little thrall?" He boomed, Greirat nodding, unable to think of anything else he could do. The Knight stood to the side, motioning Greirat on, cooing at him like a small dog. "Go ahead, come on."

Greirat crept across the cell as the Knight egged him on, a psychotic edge to his voice as the thief slipped his hand through the bar, unlocked his cell, and opened it, Greirat shaking like a leaf in a stiff breeze with panic as he stepped out.

He knew what was about to happen as he stepped past the knight, his senses acute as they had ever been as he walked by, hearing the clink of metal plates folding over eachother, seeing the shadow of the mace being raised, Greirat's fingers flexing, counting out the seconds, measuring the distance, the speed-

The Thief ducked, the mace soaring over his head, his feet placed so he could roll past the second hit as the knight brought his mace back around, missing by a safe margin. Greirat turned around, staying low, the shield expanding in his vision as the knight went to bash him, the thief backstepping out of reach.

The knight grunted in frustration as he ran forward, bringing his mace down on bare stone as Greirat leapt to the side, turning and running, jumping three steps at a time as the Knight tried to catch up with him.

Greirat leapt over crates and barrels and vaulted tables, throwing everything he could between him and his attacker, the knight tripping up on all the falling objects as Greirat wove through the crowded storerooms like a breath of wind.

He was no good at fighting, so he just got very, _very_ good at running away, Greirat's toned legs, hardened after climbing the wall of Lothric countless times, finding footing on the smallest obstacle as he completely outran the Cathedral Knight, sunlight filtering through a doorway as he leapt to freedom from the dungeon-

Right into another knight. Greirat dug his heels in, he and knight glancing at eachother the instant before Greirat careened into him.

It was the knight that reacted faster, backhanding Greirat off his feet, the thief stumbling over the ledge.

Greirat's stomach dropped as he went into freefall, flailing his arms until he hit the ground below, bouncing off the cobblestone, the sickening sound of breaking bones filling the air. The Knight far above looked over the ledge to see Greirat crumpled on the ground, before leaning back out of sight.

Only, the thief got up, pulling himself upright from the lethal fall. He pulled off his hood, his face bruised heavily, one of his hazel eyes squinted closed from the impact as his vision flickered and darkened, the ringing in his head drowning out the sounds of the battle around him. He numbly kissed the ring on his right hand repeatedly, the brilliant blue gem glowing brightly as it soaked up the brunt of the fall.

Greirat keeled, moaning in pain from the movement after a moment, struggling to his feet and limping as fast as he could, assessing the damage through the haze. Broken forearm, severely dislocated shoulder, his breathing hurting greatly where he no doubt broke a few ribs, sprained ankle.

The powerful magic ring could suppress the trauma, but he had to find a place to hide, salvage some Estus.

He scurried into a building, the district already ruined, a few fires blazing. He found some Estus on a corpse, downing the entire bottle, the glow of the gem lightening as the heat of the Estus flowed through his body, broken bones dissolving and reforming, spilt blood evaporating off his skin while freash blood multiplied and filled his veins, his lung refilling as the ribs were pulled away and fixed themselves back into their rightful positions.

Greirat went to the basement, away from the acrid smoke, the sounds getting muffled as he found a corner to curl up in.

He'd survived before, he'd survive again. All that was left was to wait until everything ended.

* * *

It was lonely at the front. Somewhere back down the catacombs, Lothric's nobles were herded together like sheep, being lead along by the knights of Lothric, while Gundyr and a few of Lothric's elite and Black Hand Kamui pressed ahead, clearing the dangers long before they could harm the prince.

In truth, it still felt a little crowded, everyone standing in Gundyr's shadow as he thundered ahead of them. Before every swing of his halberd, he had to consider the knights surrounding them, mind every errant step. Each time he heard a footstep, he had to remember not to spin on the spot and strike them down, as he did long ago.

He vividly remembered the faces in the dark, how he would be struck from all directions. Again and again, he faced death from the shadows. Defending his back was one of many things he learned in his trials.

After spending so long as a lone warrior with a lone task, it felt disorienting to be responsible for so many close to him, especially since it was clear they were exhausted, ready to collapse at any moment.

But, as several forms continued to surge from the dank, dusty catacombs, weapons drawn, Gundyr found the one thing that never changed. He gripped his halberd, stamping his foot in front of him and surging forward with unstoppable resolve.

The Deep knights reeked of fear, unprepared to face something as strong as the Judge of Ash. Cowards, the lot of them, just like they always had been.

Gundyr's unbreakable halberd drove through the guard of the lead one's shield, knocking him off balance while Gundyr confidently transitioned into a horizontal slice over his shoulder, severing the Deep knight's head and driving the rest back. As the first fell, another took his flank, thinking the champion was off-balance, when really Gundyr was rocking to the side, steadying his feet with the momentum of his last attack. The knight failed to see the strike coming as Gundyr lunged to the side, his elbow burying itself in the sternum of the smaller knight, knocking him off his feet with the force of a battering ram.

Another knight on his side tried to get behind him, the minion of the dark assuming he was vulnerable, only for the champion to throw his weight into a spinning kick, the knight grunting as his head was knocked sideways, his neck cleanly broken.

A knight in front of him came screeching to a halt, Gundyr regarding him with a lunge forward, the knight hiding behind his greatshield. The champion's fist dented the steel face and drove the knight back. Before he could collect himself, the champion kicked his shield aside completely, his halberd burying itself in the knight's diaphragm, the champion pulling him off his feet, the deep minion grasping the haft, trying vainly to lift himself off as he was hung in the air like a macabre flag.

Gundyr vaulted his body at his comrades, the knight skipping over the rocks to their feet, sending everyone recoiling. The Champion righted himself, holding his bloodied halberd to the side as he marched forward, their voices pleasuring him as they had their runs realizing they were outmatched.

"What in Chaos is his strength!?"

"How can he move so fast in all that armor?"

"He's a demon!"

Those and more, Gundyr's booming voice filling the corridor as he boasted:

"Come on then, if pain is your desire, then step forward and face the Judge of Ash!"

They retreated away, one of them trying to rally his men,

"He's a failed knight from an old age! Just a sheath to the coiled sword, he is nothing before the might of the Deep!"

"Aye, so were your countrymen back there. You will have just as much fortune!" He voice echoed in the long halls, the knight's showing obvious hesitation in approaching him, their armor rattling as they literally quaked in their boots, their panting echoing in their helms. "Is there even a single one of you filthy cowards, hiding under the skirt of your black god, that can face me! I've fought naked women with only a stick to defend themselves with more fight in them with you!"

One of them finally charged, others following suit, Gundyr continuing his march. He batted the first one into the air with the shaft of his halberd, ramming his shoulder into his chestplate as he fell, knocking the wind right out of him, knocking a second one out with a high kick, his halberd following the sweeping move to chase away the others.

He moved like a machine, hacking, slashing, and sweeping his way through their ranks, the few stray blows that struck him barely flinching him as his thick mail reflected the blows like the hull of a galleon. They were sent into a full retreat, running as fast as they could, but the champion ran them down with frightening speed.

Gundyr stood a moment to collect his stamina, his breath growling from the t-shaped mouthpiece of his iron mask like a brazen bull, the shaft of his halberd stamped on the ground while he recovered. It was as though he'd spent a lifetime asleep, and was just now getting to stretch his legs again, his body tingling with new energy.

In his countless battles with the countless fledgling Lords of Cinder seeking Firelink, he always needed to temper himself, determining their claim to the sword and allowing them to pass, else driving them back until they hollowed or gave up, never truly intending to "win". It felt good to cut loose and drive forward with all he had for once.

"The title 'Champion' suits you greatly," Kamui said, he and Lothric's other defenders catching up, nearly all of them collapsing to the ground for a breather, "I'm surprised the king did not declare you a Black Hand. You move swiftly, for one of such brute strength."

"I'm flattered," Gundyr replied, keeping his eyes forward, "A King of Lothric from a long time ago did invite me to become his hand, once."

"And you refused?"

"I could have lived a cozy life with the King's men, leading his armies until I grew old and feeble. But, that was not the path I desired."

"So your task the past millennia _was_ self-ascribed." Kamui mused, "Pardon my intrusion, but what made you choose the protection of the Coiled Sword alone over the protection of the land in which it resides? Pardon my offense, but I find that to be wasteful of your strength."

"I agree." Gundyr said, "A terrible waste, but that's the choice I made."

"But why?"

"I made a promise," Gundyr said simply, starting off, "If we stand around gabbing any longer, your men are going to fall asleep."

"On your feet!" Kamui snapped, the knights dragging themselves up, groaning with fatigue and indignation. One of them bitterly called towards Gundyr, using his sword to prop himself up,

"I hope all that strength isn't just for show!" He snapped, "I'd hate for you to tire yourself trying to impress us!"

"Showing off? I was just warming up." Gundyr called back, "Don't tell me that sorry excuse for swinging your blade around was you _fighting_ , if it was, you're going to have your cripple Prince dragging you out by the end!"

He picked up his pace, Gundyr smirking at his indignation. All the better. Soldier's tended to put more effort into it when they were angry.

They proceeded down the corridor, Gundyr feeling a tingling in his chest. He put his arm out.

"Stop."

"You can't-"

"When I say stop, you damn well stop!"

Everyone complied reluctantly, Kamui joining Gundyr's side. The Champion felt shivers racing up and down his spine, something quivering in his chest.

"What vexes you?" The Black Hand asked,

"I don't know, but something's out there."

Kamui's eyes gained a predatory glint in the torchlight,

"Yes, I feel it too…" He said, drawing his bow from his back and nocking an arrow, "The unmistakable taint of an Oni soul."

"If 'Oni' if how you say 'Demon' back home, yes." Gundyr said, "I've fought monsters of the Abyss enough to know their ilk."

"That's ridiculous." One of the knights said, "No Demon can penetrate the High Wall,

"Yeah, I'll bet you said that about a goddamn invasion force to." Gundyr retorted, raising his Halberd, focusing on one point, "There."

The darkness ahead began to flicker, an unearthly portal appearing as black, frigid liquid of unknown type hissed on the ground, icy air seeping out as a shape slowly drug itself through. It was nearly as tall as Gundyr, even on all fours, with a thick, fat frame that would have dwarfed a bear. It gazed at its prey with two glowing blue eyes set on a wide face, his snout resembling a tortoise with wiry hairs sticking out on various points of his armor.

It used its giant mace like a crutch, propping himself up to howl at them.

Gundyr braced himself, lining up on the beast as he readied a charge, the silver monstrosity waddling himself side to side on his stubby legs, before sprinting forward, dust falling from the ceiling as it was knocked loose. Gundyr met him head-on, surging forward, the frenzied outrider reaching ramming speed, only for his target to vanish from his sight.

The Champion plunged down from above, his leaping attack perfectly intercepting the Boreal Knight, Gundyr's Halberd burying itself behind the knight's helmet, severing his spine. As the beast collapsed to the ground, Gundyr's feet hit the floor, the monster dragging to a stop.

Gundyr pulled out his Halberd, admiring his handiwork, hesitating as he drew in the tainted soul.

Though he took in the entire soul, he still felt an immense presence near him. In fact, the presence that shook him earlier seemed to only be getting stronger. There was no way such a simple brute could shutter him that greatly. He looked around, jumping at the sound of fluids dripping on the ground from somewhere above.

A Lothric knight winced behind him, the black fluid burning him with its sheer, bitter cold. Before Gundyr could consider calling out to him, a shape dropped from above, the knight letting up a gurgling death wail as a giant blade coated in fire ran him through, pulling out with a swift jerk, the curved sword tracing a blinding line of fire in an arc around the figure, driving the knights back as sparks shot from the metal on contact.

Though it was just a mere slash, Gundyr could see the wound in the steel forming an orange line that continued to burn like phosphorous, the soldier's clutching at their chests and trying to pry their own armor off as it continued to burn and burn.

Gundyr took his chance to get a good look at the creature. Unlike the abomination lying dead at his back, _she_ was still very recognizable as human, albeit with incredibly long, lanky limbs beyond what any normal human could have, icy mist seeping from everywhere on her body. Her scaly silver armor adhered to her skin so tightly it resembled actual flesh, while a blue veil trailed around her back like an aurora.

And she was staring right at him. Gundyr strafed to the side, the Dancer's head turning to follow him much like a cat, her face a set of vertical slits with only blackness behind them. Even hunched over, creeping on her folded legs, she was nearly as tall as Gundyr.

The Champion placed himself on guard as the lanky figure ignored the other knights and strode towards him, only faint, echoing breaths leaving her as she brought her burning sword to bear.

She lashed out with her blade, Gundyr blocking it, sparks flying as the warped blade ground across the iron shaft. While the metal was unscathed, the enchantment left a burn behind, Gundyr shifting tactics as he jumped back from another slash.

The Dancer threw out her free hand, grabbing for him, Gundyr smacking the limb away with the tip of his halberd, preparing to lunge, but as he shifted position, the Dancer ground her sword over the ground, forming an erupting crescent of fire, Gundyr feeling the heat through his helmet. He nearly missed her followup as the burning blade pierced the curtain of flame, Gundyr stepping around the thrusting sword on reflex, but unable to stop it from grazing his hip.

His side was struck with intense burning, an orange line of pure heat appearing on his thick mail. He had no time to assess his injury as the dancer readied another attack, but right as he thought he was beyond her reach as she brought her sword back, she sprung forward with her coiled legs, tumbling to the side.

This time, Gundyr took the attack directly, a great crescent of heat appearing on his chest, the Dancer catching herself by her hand and thrusting, the tip of her sword turning invisible as it flew between his eyes. Gundyr ducked his head to the side, the blade passing this temple by a hair, the Champion leaping to the side to keep it from brushing him as the Dancer drew her blade back.

Despite her appearance, she had an extreme level of coordination and poise, Gundyr feeling pressured for the first time in ages as the Dancer kept advancing on him, though the Champion was defending himself much better now.

She concealed her effective reach by keeping her thin, long limbs coiled, springing forward between her shorter attacks. That unpredictability would have killed him several times over without the enormous level of experience and raw reflexes he'd gained, but even then the Champion found himself backing away from the sweeping blade as she drunkenly, yet precisely kept the pressure on him.

Sporting a few more burning gashes on his stomach, Gundyr brought his halberd up in both hands, knocking the sword away and lunging, intent on goring her, but the Dancer proved too elusive, stepping out of reach and strafing to the side with surprising footwork, her body rolling to the side as she brought her blade around.

The Dancer lurched forward, crying out in pain as her attack hit the rock, Gundyr dodging the falling monster and glancing behind her, where Kamui sheathed his demon-slaying katana, her unarmored thighs slit open just above her sliver leggings.

He backflipped out of reach when she went to swat him, drawing his bow and firing from a crouch in a masterful motion, the arrow flying into the slit in her helmet as she turned her head, landing where he gauged her eye to be.

The Dancer wailed, recoiling back and clutching her helmet in her hand, Kamui stowing his bow to draw both his swords, forming a beheading scissor with the crossed blades and leaping towards her throat.

He would have ended it right there, if not for the explosive blast of energy she unleashed as she stamped the ground, Kamui catching himself by his hand and flipping to his feet when he was knocked back, though scars from the magic energy now covered his front.

The eruption of black energy pouring from the ground around the wounded dancer formed a large pool, the Dancer plunging her hand into the rift and pulling a second blade, this one grey and shrouded with magic power, from its rest.

Kamui and Gundyr shared a brief glance, each one knowing to hold her flanks, since splitting her attention was the only thing they could do at this point.

She swung towards Kamui in a flurry of grey and orange, her swords leaving streaks in the air as the Easterner used all the speed he had to prevent being minced, Gundyr charging for her exposed rear, but the Dancer seemed to sense him coming, tilting her side to Gundyr and warding him off with a long sweep, her limbs stretching further as she kept her prey at a distance, stabbing for Gundyr with one, then the other blade, before sweeping to the side to chase away Kamui.

Even with the backs of her legs pouring blood, she was astonishingly agile, Gundyr himself feeling the burns forming on his chest starting to sap his strength, doing his best to keep away. If he could just get in close, he could smash her with his Halberd, but she was leaving no openings, her twin blades crisscrossing the narrow hall, glowing orange and blue streaks littering the rocks.

Even Kamui, holding his own remarkably well for being physically weaker than Gundyr, wasn't finding an opening, though he still harassed her with arrows as he kept rolling.

The opening was coming though, Gundyr could feel it. The Dancer was starting to slow; the immense level of bloodloss from the wounds on her legs, spurred by her constant movement, was catching up.

She spun towards Kamui, raising her arms over her head as she starting spinning like a top, propelling her movement with a flurry of dancing footsteps, chasing him down with amazing speed, the ground getting sawn up before her.

But, where Kamui saw certain death, Gundyr saw his moment, sprinting forward full speed. Because of her tilt, the blades where high off the ground behind her, if he could get in striking distance, he could slash her legs the rest of the way open and completely immobilize her.

Unfortunately, as he bore on her, she caught wind of him and redistributed her weight, going into a low, spinning sweep that completely encircled her, Gundyr nearly running into it as he ground to a halt. The Dancer focused on him, wincing when Kamui placed a few arrows in the bloodied backs of her legs, the abomination falling forwards, her breath getting more and more labored as she held her swords up.

Gundyr wasn't sure if the fact she was still on her feet was thanks to sheer determination, or animalistic drive at this point as she surged forward, sweeping her swords from the ground skyward, Gundyr stepping around the slowed attack, though the Champion himself was feeling drowsy as she caught herself on one knee, slashing for him with first a left, then a right.

She cried out again as Kamui's signature leaping struck true, the arteries on the backs of her legs completely gutted as the Easterner tumbled away, the Dancer nearly falling over as she slashed behind her, turning back on Gundyr-

The Champion's halberd buried itself in her stomach, tearing through the ceremonial armor with the momentum of his charge, the two enchanted blades clattering to the ground as Gundyr braced a foot on the stone and sunk the blade to her spine, raising her up slightly.

The Dancer's large hands grasped him, trying to pull herself off, but it was apparent to Gundyr she was done for as she started leaning heavily on the Champion, Gundyr shouldering her to the side, the Dancer making a dull thud as she hit the floor.

Her breathing grew heavy, her voice a dull wheeze as she ran out of blood, which was now forming a pool around her. Her head slowly turned towards Gundyr, who was already feeling her soul start to leave her body, drawn towards him. She coughed, a few spatters of blood spitting from her helm as she gathered her breath, her entire body shuttering with effort.

"Vordt- where are you? Please… say something… Anything…"

Gundyr pointed the tip of his Halberd towards the floor, raising it,

"Vordt…" She wheezed, sobbing faintly,

He brought his blade down on her neck, her death instant. She didn't feel a thing as her golden soul was drawn from its rest.

Gundyr sat himself down, sweat pouring down his face as he looked down at the faintly glowing marks on his armor, sure his chest was good and blistered from the heat seeping through. Kamui took his side, looking exhausted, but unharmed save a few new burns in his black cloak.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'll walk it off." Gundyr replied, "I've faced much worse in my time."

"That was cold of you." Kamui remarked, regarding the corpse of the Dancer, "The Outrider Knights were human once. It seems she was thinking of her loved ones, did you not want to grant her peace before dispatching her?"

"I _did_ grant her peace." Gundyr said, "Death is the greatest kindness you can give to someone who has lost everything."

"How can you know that?"

"You know," Gundyr said, pushing himself to his feet, "Has anyone ever told you you're a nosy little bastard when it comes to this honor stuff?"

"Pardon me." Kamui said, his beady eyes boring into Gundyr's, "I only want to know the kind of man I am to fight beside. A beast who fights only to kill is no company to keep."

"If you're satisfied," Gundyr interjected, "We should keep moving. Contrary to what you may think, I'm not made of iron, and we've a long road ahead of us."

Gundyr brought his halberd to his side, stomping off with Lothric's knights staring like slack-jawed maidens.

As he proceeded into the dark, however, that single image of the Dancer's unseen face was burned into the Champion's vision. Who was she? What was her purpose? He had no idea, but something in her voice was too much to bear.

He thought he'd feel relief at ending her suffering, but all he felt was a knot in his chest.

* * *

Sulyvahn knew. As soon as he felt a small part of him fade away and disperse, and tried to reach to her soul, he knew his Dancer was dead.

That meant that, with absolute certainty, Lothric was escaping through the underground, as he thought. That also meant the Dancer failed to prevent them from passing, and they were going to escape the high walls any moment now.

The Pontiff believed that was a perfectly reasonable outcome to expect, and wondered how he would feel if she were to fail at such a basic task, first killing Emma, then capturing Lothric with a troupe of soldiers to wear away all their men first to make it even easier.

Angry at her incompetence, pity a decent soldier was wasted, joy to be rid of her.

But, all The Pontiff felt now was overwhelming disappointment. Even with the Pontiff's training and weaponry, it seemed the incompetence of the royal line was truly infinite, and he found himself glad to be rid of her afterall.

The lineage of Gwyn was a superstitious lineage of failures, inbreeds, and imbeciles, it was a wonder even one still roamed the lands.

Sulyvahn disregarded the news, surveying the rows of bound knights and generals, now detained by his faithful knights among the ruins of the Castle interior, ravaged by the invaders after the remaining knights threw everything into a full counterattack, if only to buy their nobility a little more time.

His Lieutenant, Hugo, differentiated from the others by his face mask and full-metal armor, a Pontifical crown and many markings adorning him, strode in from deeper in the castle.

"We've cleaned the whole place out," He declared proudly, "All the remaining men, and all their holy artifacts too. This castle is ours."

"Never!" One of the bound generals yelled, though he was no threat to the presiding knights, "Lothric will never belong to traitors like you!"

He was silenced as Hugo bashed him in the back of the head with the handle of his axe, knocking him unconscious, the brash commander hitting his prone form a few more times,

"That's enough." Sulyvahn said dryly, Hugo ceasing. The Pontiff raised his voice, so all his commanders could hear, "The Prince has already fled, as have most of Lothric's nobility, likely with their most powerful relics. There is nothing for us here, so we will return to the Deep Cathedral and regroup, while I decide our next step."

His commanders bowed respectfully,

"Sir," A Silver Knight captain asked, taking a knee, "What shall we do with the prisoners? We cannot bring them to Irithyll with us, and I don't believe the Cathedral or any surrounding settlements could support so many on top of our forces."

Lothric's "faithful knights" let up cries to spare them, begging for mercy through tearful sobs. The Pontiff found this greatly aggravating him, almost disbelieving of their pitiful performance.

"Dispose of them, and be swift about it." He spat.

The Silver and Pontifical Knights drew their blades, the courtyard filling with the sounds of massacre as Sulyvahn strode away. Unlike most of Aldrich's followers, he took pleasure in the visions of the future, not the base indulgences of the moment.

He knew what lay ahead for him, after the success of his main expedition. Tending to that prize would be far more satisfying than wasting time slaying nameless, irrelevant faces.

Lothric's escape was certainly an inconvenience, but he never placed his hopes on the task at hand being that simple anyway. The Prince could run, and he could even hide among the rot at Farran, where not even Sulyvahn could reach, but unless they called on nothing short of divine intervention, all they could do was hunker down and wait for the inevitable.

Hopefully, they would at least provide a challenge. It would be woefully anticlimactic if they gave up too soon.


	3. Watchers

A/N: I'm baaaaaaack

Actually, one chapter of 30 pages (40 this time, would have been a fuckload more if I hadn't decided to be lazy and push a great deal of that to next chapter) is very good by my standards. Hopefully, I can hold that consistency. I'm trying, I really am.

Sadly, unlike the last two that have been "slash slash kill kill action", this chapter and most of next are more along the lines of "talky talky exposition". Sadly, I really do feel the need and desire to go into a lot of the backstories and personalities of characters, building the world and delving into its rich history, as well as making some of my own, has been the best part of this whole things. It really was "Ooo, wouldn't it be badass for Boss A to beat up Boss B" at first, but as I've channeled the Big M to focus on the complex psychology and lore of everyone, it's ascended to something far deeper and impactful than that.

I fully believe that slower moments in a story are hard to do since you need to carry a slow pace while making it interesting, rather than boring (duh), but when you take the time to flesh everybody out and give their conflicts meaning, you make the action so, _so_ much more gratifying, as shown by Souffle's _Origin of Dreams_ (seriously, check that shit out. Like, NOW.) Hopefully, if you are a diehard Souls fan and lore nut like me, these two really long expo chapters are engaging.

Oh, but do not despair my friends. This is what we call setup. There will be plenty of jolly murder soon enough, it will just be jolly murder with a bittersweet ring.

Also, midway through editing, I realized that a whopping 21/42 Pages are dedicated to, who else, everyone's favorite sunavabitch.

I honestly did not intend for that happen. I was actually amazed when I got to the start of that part and realized there was a fucking ocean of text still ahead. What was intended to be the introduction of a few characters, and a little friendly dialogue foreshadowing stuff, came to take up most of the chapter, and I honestly didn't realize I'd written that much because it was so _not_ a chore.

I think that's in no small part due to the fact Sulyvahn is one of my favorite characters I've written. In-game, he's little more than Teh Badgai you beat up to get to Aldrich, with one really evil act under his belt, but you never really learn any more. Upon studying his lore, I've found a truly fascinating character in him. He's that special kind of evil where his evil is transparent and detestable, but his motivations are ambiguous and morally grey.

Something about trying to take a character I've done my best to turn into Hitler 2.0, and putting him in a natural setting, just having a casual conversation, with Caligula 2.0 and having them play off each other was ridiculously fun.

* * *

Leaves gently rustled in the trees, falling away one by one and tumbling to the swamp below, drifting against the soft lilypads and mosses settling against the trunks of the soggy old wood. Gabriela found herself occupied by the sunlight brightly flickering across the gently rolling water, the evening sun warm, yet still a few shades dim as it broke around the treetops, the ancient wood looming high above.

The little rays of light, alongside the dull thrum of cicadas, the burbling of toads, and the buzzing of mosquitos and dragonflies threatened to lull the young pyromancer to sleep as she lazily rested at the back of the small wooden longboat, a few others resting while two, one at the front, one at the back, rowed, the oars propelling them along the shallows, a trail of silt marking their path from the fishing spot they just departed.

The pyromancers, all from the Great Swamp or a land of that sort, were 20 years her senior, leaving her the odd one out as they discussed the goings on of the swamp and kept an eye out for any hostile wildlife, but they'd allowed her to tag along the last few times as she'd proven she could hurl a few fireballs well enough, and was building a tolerance to the insects and humidity, which wrecked her health when she first arrived.

Her garb, well-made but still crafted of rough materials and fabric scrounged from around the woods, itched as she changed position, trying to stay concentrated, but she felt drained as the eerie quiet she was used to back home was replaced by too much noise to track.

She caught a few of her fellow pyromancers gazing at her in their concerned fashion, unable to invite her into their circle, mostly due to Gabriela's own resistance to open up. It was no secret she was an outsider, her deathly pale skin, which was freckled and tanned with sunburn by now, and shiny dark hair and eyes were a dead giveaway, which made her the subject of fear and hesitation at first, then curiosity as they accepted her into their small group.

She confirmed that, indeed, she was in fact a pyromancer, and that pyromancy was actually more common in the northern tundra's than you'd think, considering the school of learning in the Profaned Capital, though people were starting to avoid the place since Yhorm moved back home.

She didn't see it herself, but from the stories he just let himself in through the front door. It wasn't like anyone could stop him anyway. The ancient Lord of Cinder was nowhere to be seen after his arrival, but everyone was aware that he was in all likelihood upon his throne at the deepest level of the Capitol, though no-one dared plunge to those depths, where the everlasting fire was thickest and numerous gruesome things were nestled down.

The longboat bumped up on the rocky shore, running atop the loose silt and pebbles, everyone filing out. Gabriela pushed herself upright and found her stride as she stretched out on her feet, digging her boots into the muddy ground while the others drug the boat further up to keep it from drifting off, though they didn't have to go too far as there was little in the way of tides in the swamp.

She thankfully didn't have to carry much, as everyone else shouldered the heavy nets of scorched meats and freash fruits they'd picked, enough to last a couple of weeks. Gabriela was hardly out of shape, but she was not as rugged as the other pyromancers as she'd never spent so much time away from the comfort of civilization, and they knew it.

She couldn't say she wasn't embarrassed as they headed down the path, having to be coddled while everyone else worked hard to keep themselves up, especially since they were so nice to her, but she felt she didn't have any choice but to accept their hospitality for now.

They came upon their camp, a bonfire roaring on the dried wooden logs sitting in a circle of blackened rocks, the meat of fish, crabs, and small game from an earlier hunt already roasting nicely, several tents pitched in a circle on the small outcropping above the water.

Copper and wood totems were hanging up around the mouth of the tents, while a few more pyromancers of the Great Swamp busied themselves as dinner cooked. They were all outcasts from here and there, always on the move across the country, united in their search for the mythical land of pyromancy, Izalith, and the great flame of Chaos, the highest echelon of the flame arts.

They dropped off their haul, Gabriela going to the tent of the presiding sage. She poked her head in, seeing the blindfolded master sitting in meditation, a set of candles sending flickers of light down his raven-feathered garb and the mossy green copper medallion hanging down his chest.

"I'm back," she said, Cornyx giving her an indifferent nod,

"Yes, yes. I could sense you coming." He said, though there was little malice in his tone, just distraction, "Have you brought me anything today?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in I'm afraid." Gabriela shrugged, Cornyx scoffing,

"Hmph, I guess you wouldn't find any tomes just sitting around in the swamp would you?" He laughed, "I'm afraid I'm getting idle these days, I hope you can bring me knowledge soon, what is a master without a pupil?"

"I've taught you plenty." Gabriela said, "At least everything my teacher could convey."

"I have no doubt, but at least a new tome to muse over would be fine."

"I'll see what I can do." Gabriela said, bringing her head out and joining the other pyromancers in their feast, sinking her teeth into the thick, juicy meats.

The old man really had an appetite for knowledge. It was funny that she'd been the one teaching him for the past few months, Cornyx giddy to learn the arts of the Profaned Capitol, completely unknown this far south. It was only a pale shadow compared to the Chaos fire arts, but it was still very advanced, especially after the founder of the school dedicated to studying it, Sulyvahn, thoroughly broke it down and made it his own, though- he had other things in his life at the moment.

They were all well aware of the escalating war between Irithyll and Lothric, and that a massive battle between the two was still raging. The fires could be seen for miles, all the way into the forest, and Cornyx, a resident of a local settlement of undead, said he fled the area when several fanatics of the Deep went on a rampage.

He didn't feel safe with those savages around, something he sadly shared in common with Gabriela, though she'd run much, much further than him.

Something caught her attention, a few other pyromancers following her gaze to the sizable group of armored figures following a path a ways from them, the open water giving them a mostly clear view. It had to be the people of Lothric who escaped their capitol, since the path they were taking lead further north, towards Farron. No one outside the closest allies of the Lords of Cinder dared venture into the deep woods, where the Undead Legion ran a fortress for themselves and their acolytes.

Gabriela'd never seen it herself, but she'd heard the land once belonged to an old and powerful kingdom that was annihilated by the very first outbreak of the Abyss, where it may have been born, with transient bands of fierce marauders protecting it until they left as well. The Legion dug something up there, calling it the "Wolf's Blood", and rose an army on that spot. They were vicious, cunning, and the definition of merciless, and the world breathed a sigh of relief when they linked the fire.

The pyromancers, just after Gabriela arrived, tried to take refuge near there when they learned Irithyll was on the march, but they turned right back around after their walk there. It was like all the filth and corruption in the world welled up in Farron after the Abyss Watchers left it behind, and even if they had the stomach for it, they could feel eyes on them the whole way there and back.

Despite this, Gabriela got up, feeling a knot in her stomach as the time she'd been dreading came.

"I have to go." She said, several confused voices following her as she went away, grabbing her bag off the ground and throwing it over her shoulder. "Tell Cornyx I may not be back for a while, but there's something I need to do."

* * *

The Host of Embers continued to run, crashing through the underbrush and leaving a track that was clear as daylight to follow, even if he wasn't making enough noise to wake the dead of Farron.

The hunter continued to make fast, steady strides, his footsteps slightly muffled by his ghostly body, his dark blue silhouette standing sharply against the midday sunlight falling across his back. His bloodied claymore was a little hard to steady at his side as he continued to sprint, but the little bitch who intruded in his stretch of woods and sent an entire gang after him the past hour was not going to get away.

His heart was pounding, though it was hard to feel it in his present state, but he was catching up fast, both from working on his stamina so greatly as well as his awareness of the environment, having memorized the layout of the land, vaulting over rocks and tall grasses, following the flow of water to put gravity on his side and conserve energy.

Mason was not unlike a wolf on the prowl, picking off most of the party from hiding and evasion, and now that he'd sent the rest of them running, it was time to simply give chase until they dropped.

He finally dropped out of the underbrush, his prey springing from the opposite end. They'd arrived at the host's camp, his eye already fixed on several glyphs surrounding his fire, meeting the gaze of the Watchdog.

"How did he catch up with us so fast!?" His remaining phantom exclaimed, Mason wasting no time in bringing his sword to bear and closing in. The phantom came forward to meet him, the haggard watchdog, bearing several partially healed gashes and bruises, a little slow on the draw, but he could tell the white silhouette of the host's ally was pretty well depleted himself, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly to make sure the host was still on one knee furiously calling on the glowing glyphs that beckoned phantoms from other worlds.

Mason could feel the chill of worlds crossing eachother. He had at the very most one minute before more entities emerged and he was completely overwhelmed. The phantom, scimitar in hand, had cold feet, dodging out of Mason's reach as his massive claymore swung for him, the Watchdog too tired to hold his claymore straight and take full advantage of his range.

The pestering rogue ducked in and out, slashing at the Watchdog and leaving light cuts on his sides, Mason stepping right through the attacks as he threw his weight into an arching slash, the tired phantom avoiding evisceration, though his torso bore a new cut.

The Watchdog swung for the phantom, who was continuing to back away, feeling his support creeping closer and closer. Mason struck for his left, then his left again, stepping right to push him back-

The phantom's foot hit a rock, knocking him off-balance the instant Mason needed to leap in and practically vault the man off his feet, throwing him to the ground. Before he could get up, Mason brought his claymore high and rammed the point right through the phantom's head, his death scream echoing in the grove as the ghostly form collapsed into the ether.

The Watchdog spotted the blades of swordgrass magically emerging, soaking up the blood, Mason swiftly plucking one and slipping it into his waistbelt alongside his other kills.

He looked up to the host and charged once more. Three shapes were beginning to emerge at the Host of Ember's feet, the host raising a shield and pointing his halberd forward, backing away. Mason had only seconds before it became three spirits in top condition vs a single exhausted and battered Watchdog, gauging the distances between him and his target.

The host's intent was obvious as he dropped his shield and took his polearm in both hands, bracing himself. Mason would impale himself on the tip of the halberd before he could even hope to get close to him, as the Watchdog's greatsword was shorter than the polearm and he didn't have the time to try anything fancy. A suicidal action.

Mason brought his greatsword up for its signature thrust, parrying the Halberd with the tip of his sword, though the host was ready and pulled back, thrusting the blade into Mason's side. Yet the Watchdog was barely even slowed down as he pushed right through, his entire hip ripping open around the axe as he rammed the tip of his greatsword into the host's gut. The host reeled from the blade, Mason pulling it back out as the host collapsed, raising his sword over his shoulder and cleaving his head off with a stroke channeled from the full weight of his body.

The apparitions swelling around the fallen host collapsed, severed from the world, the host's releasing all the blood the Watchdog needed as he carefully took a fine swordgrass blade and retrieved it, adding it to his belt.

In truth, he was a little disappointed. The last kill was extremely sloppy, and would have gotten him killed if he hadn't been wearing the enchanted ring gifted to him by the Old Wolf. Mason grasped his side, which was bleeding profusely. Afterall, the wolf ring didn't stop him from getting injured, or even mitigate the damage from eating attacks head-on, it just let him hit whatever he was aiming at when he decided to charge in by stopping the pain and trauma at the moment of making the hit.

He settled on the ground, propping himself up on his sword as he started to fade away, feeling the world around him slipping as all the sensation left his ghostly form, leaving him in blackness. After a period of drifting through the void, as though in sleep, he felt all his senses returning to him once more, his solid body fading into being at the keep perimeter, were he started from.

He stood up unsteadily, all the battle damage he'd taken from the skirmish, all the cuts and scratches on his northern armor, completely gone, as though he was never hurt, though he still felt lingering pains from where he was cut and he felt absolutely beat.

Looking around, he could tell most everyone was still gone, though they'd be back from the afternoon hunt soon, so he set out to pay a visit to the Old Wolf while he could still manage, taking it a little slow so he didn't pass out on the way there.

He sheathed his greatsword on his back, thumbing over his bloodied swordgrass, smirking.

Seven. Not a record, but none too shabby for the first half of the day.

He always found it calming pacing down the keep perimeter, imagining what the place must've looked like when the Abyss Watchers were still around. The great walls used to ward people out, dotted with several fortress keeps, were falling down, the bricks falling over eachother in heaps as the mortar turned to dust with age. Forges used to mass produce great steel blades that could cut down demons sat stone cold and were rusting away, vines trespassed in the bunks and common rooms, and shafts of sunlight shone through the ceiling as the roof broke apart.

The place had this majesty about it: sitting in almost total abandonment for literally thousands of years, yet still retaining a little, if only a tiny bit, of its old glory, preserved in part by all the transient people passing through. Some did it to anchor their sanity for a little while longer. Some did it out of humble respect or tradition. Some just did it for the killing, but everybody left their mark, like the Abyss Watchers of old.

He left the perimeter wall, into the dank, festering woods that completely overtook Farron. Nowadays, it felt like the walls were keeping the filth in, rather than trespassers out, Mason carefully tracing a path along the various islands, even more ruins sunk into the depths of the rotted swamp. The sludge around him reeked like death, and he'd smelled plenty of corpses in his day.

The stuff was so toxic it was practically acid, getting any on you would put you off duty for a week, and that was with Estus treatment.

It was hard to believe that once, a very long time ago, this forest was an oasis. The estate of the Undead Legion was something to be envied and revered, but everything changed when they became Lords of Cinder. Mason was born much, much too late to see any of that, but the Watchdogs kept pretty detailed accounts of their comings and goings, all the way to the first ones, if only to make sure there they were remembered when they eventually retired.

Mason resisted the urge to draw his sword when a sharp howl called out, the Watchdog seeing several Ghru skittering around, watching him. He still stared a little, despite them being the dominant life in the festering wood as he continued along.

They were a sad bunch. From what the Watchdogs knew, they were the human servants of the Undead Legion back in their prime. When the Watchers left to become Lords of Cinder, the acolytes were so doggedly and unconditionally loyal they stayed behind and tended the lands, even when the place turned rotten and corrupt, all to make sure their masters rested peacefully. They had kids to pass their duties down to, they had kids, and so on.

With a less than viable population with a strict policy of forcing outsiders away, and the hostility of the environment, they mutated into these creatures, which were not fully abyssal, but certainly not human. They had slight differences between them, but all resembled either goats or dogs, with shaggy grey fur, reverse jointed legs with hooves, and mostly human hands, most walking upright while a few crawled on all fours.

They showed minimal signs of intelligence in their dull, beastly eyes and face that was nearly completely that of an animal. Many of them ran around completely naked, and those who wore clothes wore tattered rags mostly scrounged from the Watchdogs. Only a small handful could speak, and only in very simple clauses and statements. The smartest, most articulate Ghru would be roughly equal to a six-year-old child.

One of them snapped at Mason, though he knew better than to draw his blade, the Ghru's hostility apparent as they made sharp vocalizations and calls that sent chills up his spine, unsure of their issue.

The Watchdogs and Ghru protected the lands together, and despite appearances the former acolytes were able to differentiate between friends and trespassers, but over the past few months, the Ghru were becoming far more savage and hostile. The other Watchdogs were getting concerned the Ghru may have finally cracked, but, honestly, it was likely from the Undead Legion.

Mason reached his destination, a large tower near the center of the woods, ascending the ladder to the peak, nearly blinded by the rush of sunlight after lingering beneath the suffocating canopy of the festering wood.

After getting used to it, he walked around the edge of the tower and entered the chamber where the master of the Watchdogs waited. The Old Wolf of Farron would scare the hell out of anyone who walked in, until they realized that although the wolf was the size of a small siege engine, he would be either dozing off or at the very worst grumble a little bit, curled up in the corner by the elevator. Countless swords left by warriors of the past wreathed him, resting against the wall in various stages of disuse as a humble memento for the old wolf, but despite being so well taken care of his ribs jutted from his body like logs floating on the swamp, his nose dry and cracked.

He barely breathed, barely moved, and half the time Mason thought he'd finally croaked, but the first Watchdog lingered on, waiting.

Mason strode up to the Old Wolf, taking a knee and petting his head on seeing he was waiting for him.

"Hey buddy."

The Old Wolf of Farron groaned, his dim eyes lazily squinting open and closed, though he didn't complain too much as Mason rubbed him behind the ears.

The Watchdog got up and drew his offerings, laying the swordgrass at the Old Wolf's feet, the blood of trespassers the only thing keeping him going at this point. The Old Wolf lazily eyed the offerings, as he usually did, Mason already leaving to give the Old Wolf his peace, but the warrior stopped as he heard a rustling.

He turned around, his mouth hanging open as, for the first time in his entire stay with the Watchdogs, the Old Wolf not only uncrossed his legs, his ancient bones creaking with effort as he righted himself, but he pushed himself up, teetering unsteadily as he groaned with exertion, but found his balance as he took to his feet.

The Old Wolf gazed at Mason expectantly, the Watchdog heading back over as the Old Wolf sat on his haunches, standing at full height, making Mason feel very small as the wolf stared down on him from above.

He tucked his head down, Mason looking back over his shoulder as the giant wolf leaned around and nudged at his back, until the Watchdog realized the Old Wolf was nudging his claymore. The Watchdog pulled his sword out, the Old Wolf gazing at it expectantly, Mason laying it on the ground.

The Old Wolf placed his giant paw on the blade, Mason flinching as the Old Wolf leaned down and ripped his own leg open with his teeth, his dark, depleted blood flowing down and pooling on the sword, spilling over the edges and covering the floor partially.

The Watchdog put his hands on his hips, letting up a discontent sigh while the wolf's features wrinkled in concentration, a deep growl echoing from within him. The metal of the blade started to hiss and smolder, a teeth-chattering rattle of warping metal filling the room, the blood falling on it starting to harden, gaining a metallic sheen with the alchemy.

It began to warp and flex, twisting and grinding itself down as it began to completely reshape itself under the force of the wolf's soul. Mason didn't even realize the old guy had so much strength left in him as he completely twisted the mundane blade into something completely new.

He took his paw off it, the blood flowing from his leg stopping, leaving the massive blade smoldering with power. The metal was no longer silver, but a dark blue resembling the twilight sky, engravings coating it from top to bottom. The hilt was mostly the same, only the guard was covered with dark bandages and the pommel appeared carved. The blade itself wasn't even the same class, now a single-bladed curved sword as long as Masons body, the backside sporting giant ridges ending in fibers of metal reminiscent of fur.

It was a blade straight out of legend, worthy of a true hero, and now it was laying at his feet, Mason gazing up at the Old Wolf who was staring at him expectantly.

"Why me?" He asked, the Old Wolf unable to speak outside of blinking lazily at him. He tucked his head down, nudging Mason's chest affectionately, the Watchdog rubbing his chin, "You sure do like me, huh?"

The Old Wolf of Farron leaned back away, limping to his corner and less curling up to sleep as falling over unconscious, crashing out and going completely still. Mason took up his blade, _feeling_ the power radiating within it, and realizing that it wasn't just forged with blood, but a piece of the Old Wolf's soul to carry with him.

After a moment, Mason realized that his sheath was now laughably unfit to hold his sword, so he'd have to carry it in hand until he could get one. He went topside, basking in the sun while he stood on the bridge. From up here, he could see the entirety of Farron and some of the surrounding lands, all the grounds he prowled as he honored the warriors who came before him, the tree tops resembling needles at this height.

As the Old Wolf entrusted him more and more with the legacy of the Abyss Watchers, and the Wolf's Blood in general, this place felt more and more like home.

It was a good feeling, but he still couldn't help but wonder if he was _really_ worthy of anything. He was just a humble, disgraced knight trying to do good by people, guarding the vacant graves of the Abyss Watchers, channeling his aggression into hunting those who would step on the warriors past.

But, regardless of what he thought, the Old Wolf seemed to see something in him, Mason treating him with the same regard as an old family pet, or maybe an uncle.

He looked over to Farron Keep, the central palace that housed the Abyss Watchers, and couldn't help but feel bitterness. When the Abyss Watchers literally crawled out of their graves, bursting open their coffins and standing tall after being _dead_ for thousands of years, the Watchdogs were confused, then overjoyed.

There was hope that maybe the Abyss Watchers would be reborn, after all these generations of living vicariously through the dead, Farron could get back on its feet and all Mason's comrades could set things right again, that the Watchdogs could become real Watchers.

Their hopes were quickly dashed. The Undead Legion treated their awakening with shock and horror, regarding their ruined palace, malformed followers, and the common rabble that moved in around their home.

They kicked everyone out and shut themselves away in their keep, bolting the place shut without a word. As time passed, some sage from Lothric came to them and offered to lend a hand. Apparently, they'd made an accord in a time that was well and truly ancient, and the Abyss Watchers built a small order of mages once again. Things got more and more active, and the Watchdogs had high hopes they could soon make contact with the Keep and explain their case.

They were more than just rejected warriors. They fought for a good cause, at least, at good a cause as you could hope for in a world as utterly mad as this, to honor the Abyss Watchers. They were the shadows of the Undead Legion, the nameless accursed born too late to join the Legion, following the bloodless Old Wolf, who was himself the ashes of the burned Wolf's Blood. A final bid to hold on after all the forces that tried to destroy it.

Once again, those hopes were crushed when the sage was thrown out, along with all the magicians they raised up. The Undead Legion banished absolutely everyone from their presence, and nothing, not even a single word, had gone in or out since then. The Legion may as well have rejoined the dead.

It was no wonder the pitiful Ghru were so upset lately. One Watchdog even took his own life. He was a good guy, never caught his name, but he spent his whole life chasing dreams of joining the Legion to the point of obsession.

When he was spurned, he found a quiet place by the old wolf to slit his throat and quietly die.

It was completely unfair. They're ingratitude to those who so kindly honored their passing to all these years was worse than them just staying dead.

Mason was interrupted from his thoughts, his Watchdog medallion buzzing with energy, alerting him to danger approaching. From his vantage point, he gazed into the woods, seeing if he could spot any signs, his blood going cold.

An army, not a party, an _army_ was tracing down the woods, invading their forest in such great numbers they couldn't hope to counter them, what looked to be eight thousand men, likely more, a large number wearing steel armor, obvious since it shone brightly in the sun through the thick canopy.

"Shit."

* * *

The great steel doors of the Deep Cathedral, sealed like the lid of a coffin, crept open, the hinges creaking with effort as six undead, three on each door, pushed the towering gateway open, sunlight weakly peering through the unearthly fog now wheezing from the open doorway like a lifetime smoker coughing up tar.

The blood and mucus drenched Gravewardens, exsanguinating the rising dead with their magnificently sharp blades, paused a moment to glance at the deacons filing out of the place of worship in two neat rows, flanking either side of the steps, before going back to their grim business.

Soon, the resident Archdeacon himself stepped into the sun for the first time in recent memory, his heavily hollowed face nearly overtaken by scraggly white air, his priestly robes permanently stained deeply with sweat, blood, and things that didn't want to be named.

Royce hurried himself a little, his towering staff acting as a sort of cane to steady his corrupted body as he paced down the stairs, wheezing with effort but visibly excited to see the grand army coming up to meet him, filing from the Road of Sacrifices surrounding the immense monastery.

Sulyvahn came forward to meet Royce, who immediately bowed in respect.

"The Deacons of Deep welcome you, Pontiff." He spoke, "As the keeper of Lord Aldrich's holy casket, it is an honor to host the most exalted member of our clergy."

Sulyvahn nodded, "It is a pleasure to be honored." He said, following Royce up the steps, "I am afraid I cannot stay long. I have important matters to attend to in Irithyll, you will understand."

Royce stopped, Sulyvahn's silver mask tilting towards him, the Archdeacon again bowing,

"My apologies, I only thought you would be here longer. I fear for the safety of the Deep Cathedral, I have heard many of Lothric's people escaped to the forest."

"Do not fear." Sulyvahn said, "I will not be gone more than a couple of months, solely for the time it will take to inform Aldrich of our success and attend to a guest of mine." He looked to his sides, at the two Knights whom he held above all others,

"I will leave my children here to protect you, as well as check on Lothric's progress." Royce's eyes went wide, the little man staring at the two knights, Hugo standing a bit straighter in pride, as he always did when Sulyvahn acknowledged him. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," The Archdeacon said quickly, "I simply did not know-"

"I had children?"

"Yes." Royce hung his head, "I mean-"

"There is no reason to feel humiliation. I have not taken wives, and they were schooled by me personally. There are few outside those closest to me who know."

"A wise choice," Royce nodded mechanically, visibly straining not to make even the slightest wrong move, "What are their names?"

Sulyvahn motioned to his left, to the heavyset, platemail-clad figure, his axe resting at his side,

"Hugo, my middle child." Sulyvahn motioned to his right, where Islinde was still resting quietly, lost in her thoughts, her face hidden by a silver mask behind a mourning veil of pure white. "Islinde, my eldest daughter, and the heir to my throne in Irithyll."

Royce stepped forwards, Islinde looking down at his outstretched hand, beckoning hers into his, "My lady,"

Islinde considered speaking. No words came. She remained quiet as Royce looked into the tinted lenses of her eyes, obviously hurt,

"Islinde was born with a severe illness." Sulyvahn spoke for her, "She is afflicted by crippling pain, and suffers horrible burns when exposed to light. I have worked tirelessly to alleviate her suffering, but I'm afraid she has not adjusted well to the company of others due to her condition."

"Oh, I am horribly sorry," Royce nodded to her, "I will be sure the servants accommodate you in whatever way they can. May the Deep comfort and nurture you."

Islinde stared at him a moment, before giving a proper curtsy, believing he would understand her intention.

"Can we go inside?" Hugo interjected,

"Yes, let's." Sulyvahn said, Islinde lingering behind him as they continued into the Cathedral of Deep, "I wish to see everyone off properly, to ensure there is no confusion on what I want while I'm absent."

"Of course," Royce said, "I did not know you were arriving so soon, I will gather my deacons and the captain of the knights for you."

"Good."

As they walked through the threshold of the Deep, Royce seemed to remember something, hesitantly asking,

"Pontiff, if I may ask."

"Yes?"

"Well, the way you addressed your two children, you made it sound like you had a third…"

"I do, my youngest."

"Is she not here right now?"

Sulyvahn slowed down, going silent for several seconds, Islinde feeling saddened as well,

"I am afraid she is lost." He said simply, "I do not wish to speak of it right now, but I will be sure to describe her in detail before I leave, as she may be nearby. If you find her, you will return her to me unharmed."

"Yes, of course." Royce replied, stopping as Sulyvahn's withering gaze radiated through his mask,

"She will return to Irithyll in _better_ condition than when she left home. If I find one marking, one trace of abuse upon her body, you will wish for death long before I am done with you. Is that clear?"

"Absolutely, your lordship." Royce bowed, "I would never, never consider anything else, I promise you. And that goes for our servants, as well."

"For your sake, you'd better deliver on that promise." Sulyvahn leered, leading them away. Islinde occupied herself with the interior of the Cathedral while she was lead around, Hugo pacing impatiently while the other knights spread over the area to get some short-lived rest. Islinde knew that, secretly, her brother was pleased to visit the Cathedral of the Deep, which not only tolerated but encouraged the dark desires he kept hidden from father.

The entire place reeked of evil. Sulyvahn always told her to place little value in such a vain word, but it seemed appropriate to her. The golden chandeliers hanging overhead, each the size of a building in themselves, cast soft candlelight through the mostly hollow building, all the rooms and chambers sitting on the two lofts on either side of the lake of shallow sludge that made up the ground floor.

Though it was so far below her the Cathedral Knights resembled gnats, the stench of the vile tar seemed to burn her senses. Everything was a few shades darker than outside, like the light was swallowed up as it passed through the door, and the air was thick with a sticky, unearthly fog drifting waist high at random intervals.

When they rode an elevator downstairs, walking over the dark grey-blue tiles as they continued deeper into the Cathedral, Islinde could faintly hear terrible sounds from behind many of the doors she passed, both man and woman, even child.

She didn't receive very much from the conversation between her father, Royce, and the presiding captains of the Cathedral Knights when they reached an antechamber, only that Sulyvahn was going to keep a healthy garrison of Irithyllan knights at the Cathedral alongside the locals.

Hugo was going to be dispatched with periodic scouting teams to keep watch on Farron, Islinde was to stay at the Deep Cathedral to bolster the guards.

It was likely for the better, Islinde was a poor hunter, unlike her brother. When the meeting resolved, Royce beckoned to Sulyvahn,

"If it would please you, we prepared a feast to welcome you," He said, "I understand you have important duties, but it would be satisfactory if you would accept our hospitality."

"It would please me." Sulyvahn replied, he turned to Islinde, "I believe you already have a room prepared, why don't you change out of your armor?"

Islinde nodded, one of the handmaids to the Deacons leading her away while Sulyvahn and Hugo continued to their own places. The room she was taken to was musty, as was most of the Cathedral, the perfectly flattened sheets, damp air, and cobwebs at the edges of the room marking it as a space that hadn't been used in a very long time.

The room was lit brightly by a candelabra against the wall, with several more candles resting at the foot of an idol sitting on the broad cabinet, a few shelves were slid out with her clothes from Irithyll, the few belongings she decided to bring along sitting on a nightstand at the foot of the great bed.

It couldn't compare to the Pontiff's mansion she was raised in, but it was surprising how lavish it was for an ecclesiarch's room. Then again, her father told her of the gross hedonism that became the religion of Deep, in passing.

"Is everything satisfactory, my lady?"

Islinde breathed deeply, "It is alright." Her small, low voice exhaled, the acolyte nodding and heading away. She closed the door gently, walking to the candelabra and sweeping her hand over the crescent of candles, emitting deathly cold to extinguish them, she crossed the room and put a few more out on the cabinet, such that she was almost entirely blind.

Islinde reached up to her face, drawing her veil off and placing it gingerly on the cupboard before sliding her mask off, her pale, translucent eyes widening in the dim. On a vanity mirror on the wall, she could see the red gleam in her transparent eyes, icy condensation running down her bleached skin on exposure to the warmer air, her snow white hair falling into her face as Islinde drew it out in her fingers.

She went in search of her spectacles, slowly kneeling to the ground and rifling through her belongings, finding the small wooden case and removing her glasses, placing them in the bridge of her nose and gently nudging them into place.

From there, she went about drawing off her clothes and armor, loosening the straps on the Irithyllan ore plates and lowering them to the ground, shedding the silks layer by layer, her numb skin faintly chilling on contact with the air. Though it was tiring having to keep it active all the time, she always found cooling her skin with magic relieved some of the pain, though undressing always reminded her of the struggle.

She had horrible eyesight, her skin broke out in horrible burning rashes on contact with sunlight, and her nerves were incredibly oversensitive. It was no wonder she barely spoke to anyone. She was defined by hiding, under her clothes, behind glasses, and inside closed doors, all to escape the pain.

When she was done, she slid into her light, lacey silks, the layers all snow white, her favorite color. In the Sunless Realms, so named for the eternal night and unending winter that defined the region, she always found comfort in the snow, and was gracious to wear its pure blankness, here in this gloomy house of sin.

She put all her things in order and left the room, gently sliding the door closed behind her and finding another acolyte of the Deep waiting for her, leading her along to a feasting hall. It was rather plain, at least compared to her accommodations, a simple oaken table with several chairs taking up the long hall, decorative pillars lining the sides to part various friezes of the distant past, a red carpet leading down the center, beneath the table.

Royce and Sulyvahn were sitting across from one another at the heads of the table, several red and a few blue-robed figures, as well as her brother and a few Irithyllan knights already sitting patiently along the sides.

Islinde took a seat directly right of her father, glancing to the side and seeing a few acolytes finish extinguishing the candelabras that dominated the monastery, leaving just enough to see. It was no doubt at the request of her father.

It was a little strange seeing Sulyvahn without his mask, retaining his tattered holy garb, but leaving his pale, sharp face exposed. His eyes were two pearls of blackness, like a night sky, his skin free of blemishes, but the faintest wrinkles and harsh lines on his features betrayed the fact he was nearing 100 years old. Even in the company of his children, he was very reserved and distant, asking Islinde to refrain from calling him "father" when they were on duty, lest it cloud her judgment.

Royce raised his hands into a gesture of prayer, his loyal servants mirroring his gesture and saying a prayer Islinde mostly blanked out, everyone starting to feast when grace was said.

They had sloppy table manners, ripping into the juicy meats and fruits wildly and slurping their wine. They looked like men of faith, but feasted like revelers, Hugo participating in kind while Sulyvahn's eyes glinted with mild disgust as he sawed his meal with clean, solid strokes.

Some of the other deacons caught on, the meal becoming increasingly uncomfortable and quiet.

"So," One of the deacons in blue, likely a bishop, started, the folds of his pudgy cheeks shaking like gelatin with the effort, "Is it true that you have never held a position in the Deep Clergy, save for Pontiff of course?" He directed at Sulyvahn, who finished taking a sip of bitter wine and rested his goblet on the table,

"Indeed." He replied, "To be entirely sincere, I am unfamiliar with your… customs. Aldrich elected me as the primary executor of his will when I aided him in capturing Anor Londo. In truth, I am more accustomed to kingship than ecclesiarchy, but in Irithyll the titles are largely one in the same. The late god of the Darkmoon ruled from the city of gods, and could impose whatever he desired. Irithyll possessed a senate and central church, but Gwyndolin was the only being with true power and authority."

"Before he was made one with the Devourer." Royce added, Sulyvahn nodding,

"Naturally. I was awarded the title of 'Pontiff' for my services, and for holding the highest position in Irithyll, but in truth I find 'cancellarius' to describe my role more fittingly. I consulted the senate on important matters, imparted my wisdom of mysterious happenings."

"Happenings?"

"Chaos Demons, outbreaks of the Abyss, signs of heretical or unusual experimentation with souls. Make no mistake, regardless of what you wish to call me, I have always been a servant to the people, above all else."

Royce knitted his hands, deep in thought,

"Forgive me for saying," he said, "I find it unusual that Lord Aldrich would impart so much trust in someone who is a stranger to the Deep. Our order is old, and has always demanded a lifetime to understand the workings of the Deep. Forgive my saying, but you openly deny being one of us." The deacons gave affirmative nods, Islinde catching the faintest shadow of a smirk on Sulyvahn's lips,

"Skepticism is a healthy trait to nurture. Afterall, without skepticism, there can be no progress. I, myself, find myself skeptical of the Deep." The deacons all looked at eachother, leaning in close to utter hushed whispers. Sulyvahn raised his hand for silence, which they readily obeyed, "We may have our differences, but I never said I do not support your cause. The First Flame has ravaged mankind for more than long enough. The Royal Family has doomed the world to annihilation, therefore, annihilation of the Royal Family, and the creation of a new, pure institution is more than in order."

The deacons gave enthusiastic support, nodding their support and saying graces under their breath. Islinde could feel the energy radiating from her father, the kind he always gave off when he began to let his passions take hold of him.

"I have no claim to godhood, nor do I desire any. I am not a god, I am a man. But I am a man who will lead the Deep to glory and victory. I made it possible for Aldrich to consume the God of the Darkmoon, and soon, the other Lords of Cinder will follow. He will tear down this tired cycle of light and dark, and a new leader will usher in the next chapter of mankind. A new chapter, in our own image."

The deacons' excitement was palpable, Royce looking especially enraptured by Sulyvahn's radiance. The Archdeacon raised a glass,

"Indeed. Though you have yet to see the Deep, you are our one true Pontiff. Aldrich could not have chosen his right hand more wisely." The old man said, the feast reaching its end after they cleaned their plates, finished their wine, and stood. "Now, let us partake of flesh." He said, a second hunger appearing in his eyes, "It is our nature, as humans. We have gathered an especially fine selection to celebrate your victory over Lothric."

The intoxicating aura of Sulyvahn waned,

"I deeply appreciate your offer, but I'm afraid I am much too busy." He said, "The war is hardly over, and I believe I should treat the next steps with due caution."

"Hmph." Royce scoffed, "What is life without pleasure? You are a great leader, Sulyvahn, but I do not wish to see you dull your humanity by neglecting your needs."

"I attend to my desires every day, Archdeacon. My desires are merely different than yours."

"I see that clearly. And I respect you," Royce turned his attention to Islinde, the younger knight blushing at the attention of him and several other deacons, "What about your children? I could see your daughter carousing finely with us."

There was a change in the air, Islinde shivering when she realized it was radiating from Sulyvahn, the black pits of his eyes shining. Even Royce, more than a little confused, could feel the Pontiff's anger, before Sulyvahn calmly composed himself, the brief flair in his temper passing,

"Islinde is a grown adult, and I more than trust her judgment." He said, turning to his eldest, Islinde's red eyes meeting his kindly, "She may partake in whatever you have to offer, _of her own will_." He added, standing up from his seat, Islinde joining his side while everyone else in the room stood and filed out, departing to a different point in the Cathedral while Islinde lingered behind her father.

Royce took a moment to see them off before joining the rest of his clergy, genuine disappointment clouding his intoxicated stare,

"I apologize for any offense I may have caused," he said, "I am only offering all the hospitality I have to offer."

"Of that, I am appreciative." Sulyvahn nodded politely, "I am sure our… differences will be resolved in due time."

"I hope." He took another look at Islinde, "Feel free to come and know us, when you desire it. I promise you will not regret it. You will feel alive like you never have before, you have only ask."

Islinde gave a polite curtsy, Royce showing himself off while Sulyvahn lead Islinde further into the Cathedral, seeming to know his course.

"What about me?" Hugo called, standing at attention, Sulyvahn sparing him a brief glance, "Do as you see fit."

Hugo huffed, following the deacons.

"Disgusting pigs." Sulyvahn muttered under his breath, out of earshot of any servants around them. He looked at his daughter, who was holding her hands to her chest.

"It seems his invitation was for diplomacy." Islinde commented, "Would it anger you if I humored him, though I personally wish against it." She asked half to herself, already knowing his answer.

"I meant what I said," Sulyvahn spoke, "You are free to guide your own destiny. However, I would be disappointed beyond the words to describe it. You are a fine young woman, the finest I could have hoped to call my daughter. Such acts are beneath you."

"I know. I have no interest myself, I am only curious as to what strange mania has taken them, or how they act this insanity out." She said, deeply thoughtful, Sulyvahn nodding,

"The Cathedral of Deep is an over-glorified pleasure cult, there is no deeper motivation or drive to understand. Their brains festered and rotted alongside their souls generations ago, but no matter how far I sink my expectations they continue to astound me."

"Was it always this way?" Islinde wondered aloud, "there had to be a 'before'."

"Insightful, as always." Sulyvahn said, "There was, once. 'The Deep': a flooded tomb of giants, the domain of an old god, and containing no small whisper of his presence. From the accounts of Aldrich, the Deep Cathedral was harmless enough. And yet, all it took was the smallest whisper of Dark, the tiniest, most miniscule spores of blackness to be roused by their presence to doom them. Their original sin was being too stupid to realize that burying abominations in the deep would not 'cleanse' the remains, but instead cause the Deep to fester even faster." Sulyvahn shook his head, staring into the floor with amused disbelief, "Really, _that_ is the only worthwhile thing to ponder. How the miasma, mingled with the corruption of the Abyss, could give birth to such a- baffling outbreak of dementia."

"But you still showed them politeness and respect, because they are closer to Aldrich and rule the lands surrounding the Deep Cathedral."

"Because regardless of personal distaste, they are valuable. At the moment, it is the cooperation of Irithyll and the followers of Deep that have allowed us to overtake Lothric. We can accomplish more standing together than acting apart. But," He said, resting his hand on Islinde's shoulder, "Never compromise yourself. Your soul is the most precious thing you have, always be wary of those who would try to steal it, taint it."

Islinde nodded, the two continuing on without another word.

They made it to a high loft, Islinde squinting at the abundance of candles and incense burning all around her, reeling a little on sighting several bloated, festering- things outside a doorway. They were pasty and light pink, like human flesh, with no hair, eyes, teeth, or nose on their melted faces. Their lower body was overtaken by that of an engorged maggot with rolling, wrinkled flesh excreting thick, syrupy sweat that was absolutely putrid to smell. The only human extremity they had were their long, lanky arms, which they used to pitifully drag themselves around, prostrating and praying fervently to the entity beyond the door.

As a student of the Profaned Capitol, she was no stranger to aberrations, creatures that were never meant to be, but the fact they contrasted so sharply against the fineries of the Deep Cathedral caught her off guard.

"Man-grubs." Sulyvahn muttered, kicking one of them aside with it rubbed up on his leg,

"What are they?" Islinde pondered, realizing how little her father spoke about the Deep,

The Pontiff went to the door, covered by a gigantic iron portcullis that was ripped open with incredible force, parted like a set of drapes. "Defects."

"Of what?"

Sulyvahn pushed the great doors open and allowed himself in, Islinde walking behind him into some kind of cross between a nursery and prayer room. A gigantic chandelier of solid gold hung low overhead, unlit, with long, light blue sheets draped around it. Over a dozen cradles lined with red silk flanked either side of the carpet going up the room, with even more hanging from the ceiling by chains. Many were vacant, others had humans at various stages of development passed out within them, while some adults were lingering at the edges of the room, catching their breath.

Someone ahead had their back turned to them, standing in front of a bed sectioned off from the rest of the room by a golden enclosure, though it seemed more for decoration since it had no real gate and Islinde could see past the bars.

The enclosure held a large bed, with an equally large female who, upon getting closer, Islinde could see was truly a giant, who would have stood around twelve feet high were she not on her knees straddling an enormous grub that was somehow more deformed and possessed fewer discernable features than the ones outside. Her only garb was a once-piece dress that was coming apart at the seams and absolutely filthy, the thing falling off her body and showing an abundance of smooth, sunset red skin, her face mostly hidden by wild black hair and a veil.

The bloated grub beneath her convulsed and writhed, the figure atop it stroking its "head" in her lap as the convulsions on the grub's abdomen moved backwards, towards the orifice at the end of its body. Islinde covered her mouth, feeling well and truly ill as the folds pulled open and expelled the contents of its stomach, Islinde unable to make it out until human shoulders and torso left it.

The figure, a woman with black hair, slid the rest of the way from the grub, weakly pulling her arms free to crawl forward before sliding her legs from the fleshy prison, the red-skinned giant looking down on her with an expression Islinde found impossible to read as the slimy woman rolled off the side of the bed, leaning heavily on the frame and panting heavily.

"How did _that_ , give birth to her?" She murmured, Sulyvahn glancing at her a moment,

"Not born, _re-born_ , by Rosaria, Mother of Rebirth. Another addition to the Deep the Archdeacons were fond of."

"So, she-" Islinde was about to ask, before she decided she really didn't want to know the answer to that.

For the first time, the man standing at the bedside, watching the affair, spoke:

"You really are a greedy little thing, Heysel." He said in a slow, condescending voice.

The woman, newly re-born, looked up banefully, pulling herself to her feet while Rosaria lazily watched with amused interest, the grub beneath her settling down and going into the slow, even breaths of sleep.

"Do you really have to watch, every time?"

The caretaker of Rosaria only snickered to himself, Heysel going to one side and starting to get herself dressed. Sensing their company, the man turned around to face Sulyvahn and Islinde. She couldn't read his expressions, as his entire face was hidden by a tarnished silver mask and tricorn hat, but his voice was transparently conceited as he approached them, the two meeting in the middle.

"Sulyvahn, what a pleasant surprise." He said, "I did not expect the exalted Pontiff of Irithyll, the God-killer, to appear before our goddess."

"And I did not expect a Black Hand to defect to the Deep so readily." Sulyvahn retorted, Islinde realizing he must be the Black Hand "Leonhard" that Sulyvahn mentioned on and off in passing.

"Only Rosaria." Leonhard replied, "My true Goddess."

"Understandable." Sulyvahn said, "Who could look down on such _miracles_ as these?"

Leonhard's mask was blank for a moment, his arms crossing over his black leather coat,

"What do you want? I know you're not the type to walk in on someone without wanting something in return."

"I hear your Mother of Rebirth seeks tongues in exchange for her… blessings," Sulyvahn said, "You employ a fair number of killers to this end. Red-eye invaders to pillage tongues and Embers. I'm sure your occupation has been doing very well, with all the knights staying here for the war and the people driven out in the open."

"Indeed."

"I am calling on the Fingers of Rosaria for a favor."

"A favor?"

"I have a task that needs attention. I don't trust the Deacons to have the competence to accomplish my mission even if they wanted to."

"With all due respect," Leonhard interjected, "I know you love hearing that golden tongue of yours waggling, but how about you skip this line of questions and tell me what you want."

"My daughter is missing. She left a note that claims she has run away, that she can no longer stand my company. I don't know if the note is true or not," Sulyvahn added, "But if it is, I have full reason to believe she may have sided with Lothric, or has at the very least taken refuge nearby."

"And you want the Fingers to find her?"

"That is right."

Leonhard shook his head, "We're invaders. Our purpose is to serve the goddess, that is it. Do you expect us to drop what we're doing and divert ourselves to finding your b- child." Leonhard corrected,

Sulyvahn's black eyes narrowed, "No, of course not." The Pontiff looked around the room, casually striding along, "These are fine accommodations you have here." He noted, Islinde pressing her arms close to herself when she heard _that_ tone in his voice. "Curtains of the finest silk. Golden chandeliers and candelabras, all hand molded. Antique furniture, all made by master carpenters, for certain." He listed off, Leonhard pulling at his leather collar nervously,

"You have Archdeacon Klimt to thank for that," He said, "He recognized the sanctity of Rosaria, and prepared a place for her in the Cathedral of Deep. Countless have received her blessing."

"You certainly show an ample appreciation for your patrons." Sulyvahn nodded, looking Leonhard right in his eyes. His hand erupted into profaned fire-

"Before you make a scene." Leonhard snapped, Sulyvahn's flame still bobbing in his Fingers, "How about… we settle this reasonably, as gentlemen."

The sorcerer closed his hand, the searing flame extinguishing.

"You really are a Black Hand." Sulyvahn casually strode to Leonhard, "Fast reflexes, and wise to. And here I thought I'd have to go and ruin some priceless antiques to get my point across. That would have been quite a shame, I take no pleasure in tarnishing fine art."

A second figure pushed Leonhard aside, standing nose to nose with Sulyvahn. He was reborn into a formidable warrior, standing a little taller than The Pontiff with enormous shoulders and muscles, his breath thick as he retorted,

"You think you can just walk in here and tell us what to do, and we'll take it?" He growled, raising his fist and putting on a display of cracking his knuckles, balling up his giant hand, the Pontiff regarding the behemoth as little more than a mild annoyance. "Who do you think you are, you pale little fuck? And your whore daughter? I could-"

The giant grunted, a blue blade of pure magic piercing his chest, the finger looking down and touching the sword, though it only seared his fingers. He collapsed to his knees, the soul greatsword collapsing into the catalyst clasped in Leonhard's hand.

The Ringfinger strode up, grabbing the brute by the hair and drawing a dark blue sickle, pulling it across the man's throat and killing him in one smooth motion, the leader of the fingers kicking him forward, his face kissing Sulyvahn's feet as he bled out.

Heysel, dressed in a Xanthous robe, was horrified, trotting over,

"Why would you do that? He was one of our own!"

"Not now, Heysel." Leonhard growled quietly, using a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his ceremonial crescent blade, sheathing it as his side again. "We have an accord." He said to Sulyvahn, "It's only fitting the Fingers pay their due, considering you are the master of the Deep Cathedral so long as Aldrich is away. I know you enough about you to know you don't bluff or make idle threats, like some fools, but you can be reasoned with, surely?"

"Of course. I have no quarrel with you or your goddess." Sulyvahn said, "Find my daughter, return her unharmed. Kill everyone who gets in your way. I don't care how, I don't care what condition you leave them in, just return her to me safely."

"Oh," Leonhard nodded, "those terms are more than agreeable."


	4. Stunning Deep Sea

A/N: Guus wat?

New Chapter time! *hooray*

Took for fucking ever, since I think this one is definitely a lot less interesting than last chapter. Thank freaking Christ that next chapter should be the last major talky talky exposition chapter and things will really start building momentum.

I think this one definitely picks up towards the end (visions of sappiness). I don't know how many will like what I'm doing with a couple of characters, but I had my angst capacitors at 100% and that's when it really took off for me.

Also, this chapter in particular has a lot of (not) subtle Bloodborne references centered around a certain character, which is fitting since said character is basically a living, breathing Bloodborne loveletter in canon. How many can you spot? :P

Hope you enjoy, and hope next chapter puts me in more familiar "Luuuurthric, fuk YEAH!" territory with the killing and stuff.

* * *

The carriage shuttered to a stop, the door swinging open. The occupant, an imposing, gaunt figure, stepped out, immediately met the disturbed cleric hawking over the door, waiting for him. The Irithyllan cleric shielded his eyes from the light, so much harsher than the eternal moonlight of the Boreal Valley, which Holy Gwyndolin watched over, but did not pause as he took to his feet, his pure white garb standing against the autumn gloom.

His eyes met those of the deacon who called to him, immediately noticing the spiderweb of black veins covering his face, the discolored grey hue of his undead flesh, and the noticeable twitch in his extremities. It was similar to the regular effects of hollowing, but the holy cleric recognized its source was something far more sinister as the Deacon greeted him.

"Thank the Flame you have come," He rasped, coughing a little, but regaining his composure, tendrils of black at the edges of his mouth, causing the holy man's eyes to narrow.

"I've heard all about your religion," he said, "Personally, I don't condone heresy, however, the Way of White has a solemn duty to uphold."

The deacon, in his scarlet robe, led them forward, the Cardinal of the Way of White looking over the monumental monastery, its towering arches and grand scale not dissimilar to Anor Londo. They traced the path upwards, until they entered through a great, blue door of solid steel.

The interior was just as lavish as the outside would suggest, the Cardinal nodding with genuine respect.

"This is a fine monastery you have built," He noted, the Deacon smiling, "It must have taken ages for simple undead and hollows to have created such a fine place of worship."

"70 long, hard years," The deacon replied, "After the Deep was discovered, we quickly gathered a fine following of loyal undead, and organized our clergy as we built this place."

"To contain, or protect it?"

"Both."

The Cardinal saw further warning signs, a few more deacons gracing his sight, all in the same poor condition.

"Have you taken proper measures to ensure the Deep is not a threat to you?"

"Of course."

"Have you tended the flames?"

"Every hour, on the hour." He replied wearily, "When the flames began to dim, we formed our very own cleansing miracles to further bolster our defense. All us brave souls refuse to allow the horrors resting in the Deep to deter us, not after all our good works… but…" he hesitated,

"What is it?" The Cardinal demanded. The deacon drew a tome from his cloak, the face visibly decayed by some kind of fluid, the pages grey and curling at the edges,

"I found this in the Archdeacon's quarters." He whispered quietly, furtively passing it to the Cardinal, "It's one of our tomes, only, this one has been vandalized."

The Cardinal took the book, skimming the pages with his hands, the text abruptly becoming disjointed and incoherent towards the end, where new tales were clearly added. The Cleric's hands were shaky as he ran over these new tales, slamming the book shut.

"This is a thing profaned and evil," he said, passing it to the deacon, "I want this sealed where no-one can find it, immediately."

The deacon replaced the defiled tome in his robe, "This is why I called on Irithyll. Things have… lately, dark deeds in the night have begun to emerge. These tomes are starting to circulate. Some of our most gentle clerics have begun acting strangely at best, savage and violent at the worst, ever since this sickness started to spread." He gazed pleadingly at the Cardinal, his last hope, "We're all afraid something has gone terribly wrong in the Deep. We all need the help of a master."

The Cardinal thought long and hard, nodding,

"I must see it." He spoke, "The Deep."

The deacon nodded, "As you wish, I will guide you there."

They worked their way down to the ground floor, the deacons they passed varying between slightly ill to jabbering to themselves in hushed voices, the Cardinal wary of stepping too close to them. As they walked across the tiled panels across the ground, the Cardinal noticed fissures opening up in the foundation at points, weeping a horrid pus. It resembled an oil seep, but the tar was more a violet than black, and had an indescribable stench that made the Cleric's head go numb.

Whatever was under their feet was disturbed, forcing its way through the earth to the point of rupturing it. And the Cardinal was about to see the source itself. He was lead into a rocky passage, the deacon raising his candelabra and releasing a bright, guiding light, followed by a cleansing miracle that enwreathed the Cardinal and himself in violet rays that chilled him to the core, but made him feel safe from the depths.

As they walked through the caves, the passages blacker than black just ahead of the faint bubble of guiding light, the Cardinal could not escape a deep, all-consuming sense of dread. He fancied himself braver than the average man, as the retainer to the faith of Irithyll, but as he continued through the passages, he realized that the fear he was experiencing was not simple paranoia, it was something far more primal.

It reached into his soul and pulled at his heart, the sense of danger more potent than if he had a knife slowly lowering towards his eye. Even through the protective miracle, he could feel chills rushing down his spine, his every sense screaming for him to get away.

They light ahead seemed to wane, retreating away towards them, though the candles in the deacon's hands remained bright. The Cardinal realized that the path ahead was actually _eating_ their candlelight, the glowing rays vanishing just ahead of them.

The cleric took a deep gulp, feeling strangled. They emerged from the rocky tunnel, the Cardinal glancing to either side of the precarious path and seeing the light glance off deep, black waters, the Cardinal feeling the irresistible urge to drown in them. Bones and tendrils of the dead lingered all around, some just out of sight, and freakish sounds that defied description echoed from deeper on, ravenous biting insects tracing over the lake in droves, only just repelled by their shrinking sphere of safety.

He released that, as he feared before, the blackness down here was no ordinary absence of light. It was eldritch Dark, the maw of the Abyss, beckoned into the depths and eager to swallow their souls.

"Enough. I've seen enough." The Cardinal bit, being lead back out by the deacon and narrowly resisting the urge to run, his breathing heavy and erratic. "It's worse than I imagined. While it hasn't broken out yet, I see the Abyss forming down there. It has already taken a strong hold, and will only grow in strength, so long as it feeds."

"Oh my," the deacon said, his eyes teary, "I had hoped… this is terrible."

"Everyone here in in horrible danger." The Cardinal said, "were this a full outbreak, you would be in unrecognizable shape, however, between your flames and faith, the spread has been greatly reduced, and will likely stay mostly under control. However," he added grimly, "There was enough to cause a level of corruption, if only mental. The aggressive tendencies will only get worse, and there is no telling how many may fall to madness from the exposure."

"What can we do? Is there no hope."

The Cardinal locked eyes with him, "No. I am here. By my honor as Cardinal, I will root out this corruption and save as many as I can, though these may be the last days for the religion of Deep. It's too dangerous, even I may not be safe."

"Bless you." The deacon said, "I have a good feeling the Deep can be saved with you at our side. What shall I call you?"

"I am…" The scene faded away, swirling and churning unending, as though in a dream…

* * *

Mason rushed through the gateway separating the festering wood from the rest of the forest, meeting his fellow watchdogs as they returned from their hunt, immediately deploying to the front lines, though it was more a formality than anything else.

At full strength, with every possible hunter in their group assembled to defend Farron within their world, they stood at roughly 75 strong, just under a century. Hardly an army, but the majority of them, including Mason himself, were ex-military, warriors estranged from their land, or otherwise extremely seasoned veterans that had to fight their way to Lothric in the first place.

In times of crisis, they could cry for help from their brothers and sisters in other worlds, and summon somewhere around 100 at a given time, if they were lucky. A formidable little band for certain, but that was still barely enough to slow down a force as downright enormous as the one bearing down on them. Still, they'd never even think about turning tail and running away. At least they'd give the knights a little distraction for the afternoon.

The Watchdogs assembled near the front gate, a sea of soldiers emerging from the trees. None of the fighters had their weapons drawn, Mason still shouldering his blade as they came into view. He immediately noticed the banner of Lothric, all the knights clad in red over silver, their golden emblem frayed with the abuse they'd taken the past weeks, but still there.

Clearly not an invasion force, just the survivors of the massive beating Irithyll gave them. The Watchdogs usually didn't keep up to date on things outside the forest, but after catching several scouts from the Deep Cathedral slithering around the woods, they beat all the information they needed from them and sent them packing, learning about the war outside.

Ernie and Bernie were already ahead of the others, their leaders facing down the influx of visitors, while Lothric sent forward its own representative. There were three that seemed to be ahead of the rest, a little old lady in dark blue robes of prayer, flanked on either side by her bodyguards.

The one on the right was thin and quiet, his face mostly hidden by a broad hat, the rest of his body framed by a distinctive black cape. Everyone with a passing interest in Lothric knew about the Black Hands, so he knew that while the two eastern blades at his side didn't look like much, he'd cut anyone who charged him to pieces. The other was cause for a little more concern, since he stood clear over the priestess and the Black Hand. Not enough to be a giant, but he could take half the Watchdogs and kick their teeth in, and the way he casually strode along in his carved iron armor as though it weighed nothing said he wasn't just strong, but he could hoof it pretty damn fast as well.

That, and his resemblance to the Judge of Ash, whose sole occupation since the last linking of the fire was kicking undead who were on their way to being Lords of Cinder around like stray puppies with his plus-sized grieves.

Lothric's forces halted before the two exiled twins that lead the Watchdogs, their stout, bulky steel armor and raged black capes complimented by their odd helmets, which bolted around their heads and left nothing but two little eyeholes and the space between the bars on their muzzle.

Ernie Luet, who carried his thorny, faded steel greatsword, curved like a giant talon, spoke first. "Howdy," he greeted causally, "What brings Lothric around this stretch of the woods?"

"I am Emma, High Priestess of Lothric." The old woman at the head of the group spoke, flanked by more of Lothric's commanders, "We seek an audience with the Abyss Watchers. A dire darkness has enveloped Lothric, and will soon do the same here unless we can unite."

"Nobody visits the Abyss Watchers," Bernie answered, Ernie picking up with,

"They gone in the closet, haven't spoken to a soul in months."

"'Sides, visitors aren't really allowed."

"We are _not_ visitors." Emma said sternly, resembling an angry grandmother, "Lothric is the capitol of the Firelink, the Lords of Cinder, by their duty, must aide us."

"I don't think you quite understand." Ernie replied, "We're here to protect the graves of the warriors that gave their lives preventing the Abyss from destroying the world. Unless the Watchers say you can come in,"

"Which they won't."

"It is our duty to see you off."

A slender figure shouldered past Emma, shouting, "Now, listen here you heathens! I don't care what you think your duty is, you must abide by our laws!"

"Harold, enough." Emma snapped, silencing her subordinate and facing the brothers wearily.

"I would not ask in good conscience that a servant of a Lord of Cinder would abandon their post, but," She added, "Please, find it in yourselves to make an exception, just this once. We have sick and injured, many who don't know how to fight, our Prince. We will not last long in the wilderness."

The two brothers faced eachother, speaking in sentence fragments and half-ideas only they could understand, before facing back,

"Sorry, old lady." Ernie spoke, "But we have to place our duty first."

"Even if that duty means neglecting people in need?" The great iron warrior boomed, stepping forward, the exiles visibly flinching at his imposing presence. "I know a lot about upholding a duty, but if you make asses of yourself, I can't guarantee all these men will stay back."

Mason shifted uncomfortably, the other Watchdogs seeing the threat as well as numerous Lothric knights making aggressive motions, announcing their intent to charge. If it came to blows, they would lose badly. Yet, the Watchdog saw an opportunity, his voice leaving him before he could stop himself,

"Why don't we compromise?" Everyone snapped up towards him, Mason withering under their gaze, but he had no time to consider if it was a good idea or not as he elaborated, "Look, it's our job to keep strangers from trampling the graves, right? Well, the keep perimeter goes on for miles, and there's tons of space we're not even using. So long as they don't actually go through the wall, they're not trespassing, and there would still be plenty of space for them to camp. Having a few extra guys at the foot of the wall wouldn't really be hurting anything, right?"

The brothers looked at eachother,

"That's a really good point."

"Yeah, it's technical…"

"Technical is right enough I suppose."

"Yeah." They turned to Emma, Bernie speaking, "Alright, you can set up camp within the wall, just don't cross into the swamp. That's forbidden territory, you can sort that out with the Abyss Watchers, if they accept you."

There was a great ebb in tension between the two groups, everyone breathing a sigh of relief as they began the arduous process of figuring out where to stick everyone.

Mason was jolted by a pat on the back by Bernie, "Good job, Mason." He thanked quietly, "That could have been very ugly."

"It seemed like the right thing to do."

"Keep that attitude, and you'll have my job soon enough."

* * *

The rustling leaves overhead continued to send a dusting of sunlight through the tower, the rotunda mostly opened up to the gentle breeze through the swamp. Emma was sat down on a firm stone, a congregation of knights and Watchdogs alongside her, holding various poses around the room. She tried to get the Prince to attend the meeting, but unfortunately the young man was stubborn as ever.

The two ironclad knights, the leaders of the Watchdogs, introduced as Ernest and Bernard Luet, had just finished explaining the state of Farron Keep, and how none of Sulyvahn's forces had breached the festering wood, but the Abyss Watchers remained reclusive, though Emma's fears were not confirmed just yet.

Likewise, she discussed the invasion of Irithyll, and everything she knew about her enemy.

"Alright, so we're all completely outnumbered." Ernest spoke, "How do you propose we fix that?"

"Well," Emma said, focusing her thoughts, "I don't know if we can muster an army to match that of Irithyll, however, the Lords of Cinder must answer the call, they are very well our last hope."

"Try telling that to the Watchers." Bernard spoke, the two brothers always seeming to cut eachother off and finish sentences, though neither minded,

"We'd help if we could, but the trouble is, the Undead Legion was never very sociable, even among themselves."

"We could just barge in, but they wouldn't take kindly to it."

"Well, we must try." Emma interjected, "the fate of the realm very well depends on it. And…" she trailed off, her fear palpable.

"What?"

"I believe I know… why the two Lords of Cinder have not been responsive," Emma spoke, raising to her feet, "but I pray I am wrong. We must confirm their condition at once."

Gundyr, Kamui, and the nervous Watchdogs, both the exiled twins and the young man that negotiated the fragile peace between them heading into the festering wood. The stench nearly made her faint, the others looking no more comfortable, though Gundyr had a more confident stride than the others, looking around,

"Place reeks of corruption." He noted, "Dark eating away at the plants, the animals, rotting everything to paste."

"Yeah," the knight, introduced as Mason, added, "Some say the Abyss was actually born here, it would explain why the Undead Legion got the Wolf's Blood here."

"I don't like it. Hanging around where the Dark gathers never ends well." He growled, not so much afraid as recalling an unpleasant memory.

"Yeah? Tell that to the Darkwriaths." Ernest said dryly. Emma felt her blood run cold, same with most of the party,

"Surely you jest." The Priestess said, the exile looking at her with the utmost severity,

"It's the truth." He said, "they turned up a few years ago, a few at first, but they've started prowling around in greater and greater numbers. We've tried to remove them, but- well- they've been around since the First Lord for a reason."

"Tough bastards," Bernard added, "Word of advice, _don't let them grab you_. I've seen them pull the life from someone's bosom like plucking a flower, and if you die that way, undead or not you don't come back from it."

"What are Darkwraiths doing this far from Londor?" Emma asked, fearing tinging her voice, "They're order outside the Abyss was wiped out ages ago."

"Well, I guess a few slipped through."

The High Priestess felt this was nothing but an ill omen. How could they be prepared for such fearsome adversaries? And what could have pushed them this far from their territory? She had no time to wonder on this as they came to a great stone door, which was opened by a medallion held by Ernest, the stone slab parting at the middle and slowly grinding open.

They were put on a narrow, winding path deeper into the forest, the path littered with countless blades plunged blade first into the earth, abandoned by their owners so long ago the blades were nearly swallowed completely by rust and decay.

The path to Farron Keep had a distinct feeling of silent melancholy and remembrance, like stepping into a tomb, Emma feeling an overwhelming sense of loss, as though the souls of the land passed away, leaving a void that could never be filled again. The party was struck silent, all feeling the same sense of mourning.

They were cautious to not trip up on the winding path, until the great, looming keep of Farron, numerous torches on the higher levels gently burning, swelled up in their vision. As they approached, however, Emma couldn't help but notice how… empty the palace felt. She would have believed that at least one Abyss Watcher, at least a few of the deformed mutants rumored to haunt the lands, would show signs of their presence, but as it was, they felt nothing but loneliness.

Something was wrong, the feeling intensifying when Emma heard it. A bestial, high pitched noise, but unmistakable as a scream. Emma felt her legs working faster, the others trying to keep up with her as Emma heard the sounds of wood hitting wood, and more of those awful stretches.

They crested a hill, Emma putting her hands to her mouth. The road to Farron Keep, the residence of the Abyss Watchers, was open. Clear, save for the piles of corpses littering the ancient cobbles, the blood running down the hill in a torrent.

Corpses of dozens and dozens of deformed mutants, named Ghru by the Watchdogs, were scattered around, while the remaining were locked in fierce combat with one another, tearing away with rotted wooden weapons, and even their own claws, a tall, lanky one jumping on the shoulders of another and violently ripping his throat apart with his claws, the blood forming an aura around him as he continued sprinting around and attacking with wild abandon.

They fought with an inhuman level of ferocity, Emma noticing the bright, burning red hue of their eyes, though a few were still dull and black.

"They've gone mad!" Ernest shouted, Gundyr shaking his head,

"Not mad. Consumed."

Several Ghru started to charge at them, Emma felling a few with bolts of sacred light, while Gundyr met their advance with his great axe, the veteran champion effortlessly slicing them down while they charged blindly, Kamui bleeding several more dry with his honed katanas while the others struggled to hold the beasts back.

Mason ran in, his curved greatsword moving in cleaving sweeps as he placed all his momentum into each motion, his eyes glinting with focus as he swept through them unflinchingly, the blood of the enemies he cut down seeming to fuel his charge

A giant Ghru with stumpy legs and a slender, wooly frame that towered over them, used an entire uprooted tree to bat away the Ghru hounding him. They made a sick crunching sound as the petrified wood crushed their bodies and scattered them across the path, the elder Ghru stamping the upturned roots on the ground and sending a bloom of shrieking red skulls from the earth to attack his foes, the skulls impacting the Ghru bursting in a crimson splatter, sending them toppling to the ground with holes burned right through their bodies, like a red hot spear ran them through.

Within minutes, the pitiful Ghru were massacred, everyone panting and wheezing with effort, only a handful of the Ghru guardians left, and even they were on the verge of dying, and had only a few minutes left.

"How- how could this happen?" Mason said in disbelief, "These guys have been loyal to eachother for generations."

"You know how." Gundyr sighed, "Sooner or later, everyone succumbs to the Abyss if they aren't prepared."

They all went on ahead, the massive beast using the tree as a crutch as he leaned back on a sturdy oak, his breath deep and ragged as blood poured down from his lower body, where his skin was roughly hacked apart.

He looked down on them, sorrow in his beastly eyes. Emma was astonished he still had an ember of humanity in him, and was even more surprised when he worked his throat, forming rough, fractured words and speaking, his lips working at the edges of his tongue as his physiology barely allowed it, human words escaping his canine snout,

"Hu- man… go… you not… safe."

"What's happened here? Where are the Abyss Watchers?" Emma spoke, hoping to reach the creature, who worked himself through the sentences, blinking with effort as he checked to ensure he really understood her,

"Undead Legion- sick… Black- pussss- Red…. Eyes." He said, Emma's heart falling as her very worst fears were realized, "Legion- killing- killing- living- killing. All- time. Eachother. Sealed in- mausoleum. Preserve world… no, escape. Ghru… sick, pain." He sighed, a little shaky as he continued to bleed out, "Hu-man. Not- safe. Leave."

"They weren't hiding from us." Mason said, disbelief clouding his face, "They were corrupted, and hid themselves away where they wouldn't hurt anyone. This entire time, they were trying to protect us."

"Then we all made fools of ourselves." Bernard said, "We spent so much time trying to protect this place, but we didn't see the danger right under our nose."

Emma steeled herself,

"I knew it. I knew the Lords of Cinder would never willingly abandon us." They looked at her, Gundyr speaking first,

"I guess this means we don't have allies here afterall."

"Not necessarily." She corrected, "The Abyss Watchers are not lost yet."

"You sound like you have a plan to somehow fix this."

"I might, but we have precious few moments to spare." Emma said, hurrying towards camp, "if it isn't already too late."

* * *

They met back up in the courtyard, a few more joining them. As they settled in, a Watchdog reported good news.

Emma smiled, if only from the sheer relief that something could go in her favor, "Just in time." She sighed, the Watchdog stepping aside to reveal a large, highly decorated Lothric knight, a few centurions in tow. He removed his helmet, marching to the center of the room and bowing respectfully,

"It's good to see you alive, old friend." Emma said,

"It would take more than a few crazed heretics to kill this knight of Lothric, my lady." He said, his voice strong and iron hard as it left his wrinkled lips, his helm resting in his arm while he allowed his crow-like face to breathe.

"You know this guy?" Mason asked, the Legatus turning to him,

"Legatus legionis Atticus Flava, 9th legion." He spoke proudly, "Unfortunately, it was impossible to fully gather our forces before the march, so I represent all the auxiliary units I could gather in the brief time I could. When we found Lothric savaged and abandoned, I correctly assumed you would seek the nearest Lord of Cinder, and it looks like my judgement was correct."

"Your presence is a great relief to us all." Emma greeted, "I anything, it will boost our morale to know one of our finest generals and senators still draws breath, and there are still men out there to carry on the fight."

"Indeed, I take it you have a plan already? As Lothric is unable to lead, and most of our command is dead or incapacitated, you are the one our knights answer to."

Emma froze, everyone looking at her expectantly. In truth, it was absolute madness. She devised her plan in a moment of panic, with no time to properly study the repercussions. That, and it depended on radical, and downright _heretical_ methods.

"Are you alright? Do you need to rest?" Atticus asked, her old companion's concern snapping her from her stupor, though her sweaty hands continued to shake horribly,

"I do have- some form of strategy, but I'm afraid it will only show how desperate we really are." She said, "Have you searched Firelink Shrine? Is everyone safe?"

"We did make sure to search the shrine," he replied, "It seems they were unable to do anything to the thrones, and as far as I know the Kiln has not been breached."

"Thank goodness," Emma sighed, nearly all the air leaving her body, "Then you have brought the survivors here?"

"We have,"

"Ah, I knew I could-"

"But." He interjected, Emma's brief moment of joy turning to ice in her chest, every nerve straining, praying he didn't speak those fatal words: "Not everyone made it." he frowned, his eyes apologetic to her. Emma's face contorted into one of despair, purer and deeper than any she knew,

"Gods, don't say it Atticus."

"I wish I could." He said, "The minions of the Deep made it long before we did and ransacked the Shrine. We found survivors, who described a man exactly matching Black Hand Gotthard rescuing them from their captors, however, the two persons of the greatest interest, Ludleth, Lord of Cinder, and the Firekeeper, were guarded too heavily. Even as a Black Hand, there was absolutely nothing he could do against an entire garrison of flame witches and silver knights. He got who he could, brought them home, then vanished again."

"And were they brought to the Deep Cathedral?" She asked, pleadingly, Atticus shaking his head,

"Their captors said they were being brought to Irithyll of the Boreal Valley. Thankfully, they were a talkative bunch of bastards. Ludleth is set to be devoured by Aldrich as soon as he arrives. It's likely too late for him. However, the handmaid described that when the Cathedral Knights seized the Firekeeper, one of the men tried to pull her dress down and have his way with her alongside his cohorts, they were ripped apart and burned by a witch who walked in on the affair. She said the tyrant Sulyvahn gave them direct orders to deliver the Firekeeper to his palace, and if they returned her in anything less than perfect condition, they would face painful death."

"Yes, that's just like him." Emma growled, "Sulyvahn knows full well the value of the Firekeeper, and would not be foolish enough to leave her unattended. Unfortunately that makes our task far more difficult. Irithyll is warded by immense arcane forces, which may well be completely impenetrable. There must be a way to enter safely, but learning to accomplish such a thing is an endeavor in itself, and the Boreal Valley is far, far away."

"We'd better find a way." Gundyr grumbled, "I have a soft spot for that legless bastard."

"I understand that," Emma replied, huffing, "Just give me time to think."

"With all due respect," one of the other generals said, after a brief pause, "Perhaps it would be best if we just focused on keeping ourselves alive."

Emma's eyes narrowed, "How do you mean?"

"I know you have the knowledge to safely enter the Kiln, and as no champion has risen up, we do not really _need_ the Firekeeper." He said, "She has served her purpose, she's better off dying in Irithyll without launching a wasteful rescue mission. We've spent the lives of enough knights without chasing after something so small as a handmaid."

" _A handmaid?_ " The captain flinched as Gundyr, still as a statue since they mentioned Ludleth, turned on him, his iron armor quaking, "That's another fucking human being you're talking about, who do you think you are?"

"I did not mean-"

"How about I throw you outside, and take your eyes away? We don't _need_ another general!" He roared, his halberd rising off the ground,

"Stop!" Emma snapped, "No-one is getting left behind, and no-one is going to die to petty in-fighting." Gundyr growled, settling back in, Emma continuing, "I told you before, Sulyvahn needs the Firekeeper in order to enter the Kiln of the First Flame. I can get us in there, if that is what it comes down to, but we cannot risk Sulyvahn interrogating the Firekeeper. The Firekeeper order is an order of powerful secrets and knowledge. If Sulyvahn was able to take those secrets, and bend them to his will, he and his men could ascend to frightful new heights of power. This would also give him the key he needs to enter the Kiln. If Aldrich were to harness the First Flame, the consequences would be disastrous."

Everyone hung their heads, a somber quiet creeping into their tower, "We need to deny him the Firekeeper, and also, I need her myself."

"What for?" Gundyr asked, "You keep hinting at some grand purpose in mind for her, but you haven't been kind enough to tell us what it is."

The High Priestess felt a knot in her throat, pulling at her collar. Everyone was watching, but she could not bring herself to say it.

"My intention," she spoke, the heresy in her mind working against her better judgement, "Is to grant the Firekeeper eyes."

Everyone, even her faithful Atticus, looked at her in horror, Emma feeling a tremendous shame,

"My lady," Atticus said, his proud voice grim, "You know that is heresy. Granting a Firekeeper the power to see the Dark could have dangerous consequences. We- our world depends on her doing her duty. You know what happens when a Firekeeper falls from grace, or perverts her power. It's why we instated the doctrine in the first place."

"I know," Emma said, "there are few in the world who know more than I do what terrible heresy it is, and why. But I am afraid there is no choice. I have weighed my options carefully, and I know that we are no match for Aldrich." She said, "We need the Lords of Cinder to protect the link of fire, now more than ever before, but we must cleanse the Dark that has taken their souls. I have some basic knowledge on how to accomplish such a thing, but only a Firekeeper has a mastery of souls great enough to potentially make it work."

"You claim you can cleanse the Abyss?" Gundyr said, "If you could do it, then why didn't you try it sooner?"

"Because it's never been done before," Emma pleaded, "My theory has been exactly that; a vague concept at the best. There's no guarantee it will work, or to what degree. However, we have no choice but to try."

"So you're going to experiment on the girl? Shove eyes in her head and fiddle with her arts on a guess?"

"No…" Emma said, the old woman feeling weary all of a sudden, "I wish there were another way, but I have sworn to do anything in my power to defend the realm. No matter what becomes of it, I take responsibility in full. The gods will measure my sins, and I will meet whatever fate they deem fit." She said, "Please, understand how hard this is for me."

"Yes, it must be so hard, deciding the fate of another and taking the responsibility of feeling bad about it afterward, while you sit on your thrones." Gundyr growled, crossing his arms. "This whole thing reeks, I despise it. But, I understand. No matter what happens, I am here to serve. My axe will see her returned home." he said, Emma feeling sorrow gnaw at her.

She could hear a very strong yearning in the old, grizzled warrior's voice. The situation was striking very close to his heart, and she wished she had the power to help him.

"What's done is done." Atticus said, echoing maxims passed down from times long before, "In the face of oblivion, we will do what it takes to preserve this dying world."

"Now all that's left is to find our way into Irithyll." Emma said, "I do have a theory. The Archdeacons and their congregation departed when Aldrich left the Deep Cathedral, and returned after he devoured the Darkmoon. They passed the barrier somehow. There must be some sort of key, or enchantment, something used to cross the barrier. The Archdeacons may still have it."

"I'm inclined to agree." Kamui said, raising his voice for the first time, "But even though the Deep Cathedral is an easier target than the Boreal Valley, I have scouted the exterior many times. The place is a fortress of great stone walls and steel doors, and they have raised an army within by now. An attack on the front would result in too many men lost. I estimate a small group of merit could slip inside without being noticed, due to the sheer size of the building, but we have no idea how the interior appears. We would wonder lost until we found the Archdeacons by chance or were discovered."

"I know, we need someone who has been on the inside, who can guide us, at least enough to give some information."

"I might be able to help with that." The voice, surprisingly, belonged to Mason,

"Well, spit it out." Gundyr boomed,

"Well," he said, "While I was taking a walk in the woods, I found a pair of knights. They were far outside our patrol area, but they were nearly dead when I got there. I decided to take them back to camp, since I'm not the kind of man who will leave people to die in the middle of nowhere. They're currently resting up."

"Have they been to the Cathedral?"

"According to them, well, her, they went in after Aldrich, but that didn't go so well. They barely made it out alive and were pursued until they got too close to our keep and peeled off."

"Well, if they were able to enter the Deep Cathedral, that's a start. Take us to them at once."

* * *

Guilt is like rocks. Or a pouring of rain. But really, it was like thorns. Some days you felt it, some days you didn't, but once they dug in deep enough, the pain is constant, unrelenting. All it takes is to get rubbed the wrong way in the right spot, and suddenly it all comes flooding back.

Gundyr's thorns were stinging hard right now. In the idle moments outside breaking the skulls of the unworthy, he felt the loneliness of his duties. They couldn't understand his pain, his experiences.

He didn't remember much about all the countless timelines born from that single point he dwelled in, but in every vision of every future, across every timeline with every Ashen One, her face was there.

Without eyes, full of gentleness and sorrow, whose fate was to stand patiently by the flame a thousand years, waiting for the day she would find her champion, whom she would love and cherish until she was spent, and thrown away like an old garment.

He met her and stayed by her side so many times he could describe every strand of her flaxen hair, every seething burn on her hands. Every wrinkle at the edges of her lips when she smiled at him, and told him everything was going to be alright. All the sounds she made when she cried, and how her fingers curled when she wiped those tears away with the back of her hand. Her every word, and the faint echo it made off the walls of the shrine, which spoke only of melancholy humility and hospitality, sometimes words of assurance when he doubted himself.

That was the way of things, the last Firekeeper meeting the last guardian of the shrine, sharing their loneliness with eachother and waiting to meet their fate.

So, as they tread through the fortress, he could feel it, how they just dismissed him as an angry fool, how they kept their distance, believing he would lash out like a common savage. They knew nothing. His every step, he felt himself walking further away from her. He could see her crying out for help, reaching her blind fingers forward to find him, as clearly as she were right in front of him, the same hands that took Nora dragging her back. Any moment, she could be snuffed out, and he wouldn't even know it until it was too late again.

He knew one thing, one thing that no-one could possibly feel more than he did; that no matter how mighty, there was no arm, not of any human or any god, that could push back time.

They rounded a corner, the pair of knights immediately turning towards the doorway, where their several visitors were filtering in. Gundyr didn't recognize either of their armor sets, a skinny one resting on a rock with his legs crossed, his steel platemail sporting a reinforced left arm for holding a shield, with a heavy leather glove on the sword arm. It was the armor of a noble, the chest encased in a blazing blue surcoat covered with elaborate embroidery, the hem painted gold to complete the royal markings.

The other was heavyset, wearing iron armor that was nearly completely black, the insides and outsides bulky and misshapen, the face a solid dome of iron with a set of rivets going up the center, two perfectly round eyeholes adorning either side.

"Oh, how do you do." the one with the more royal set spoke, establishing she was in fact a she, "What's everyone doing here?" Her guardian, looming over her, emitted nothing but heavy breathing and growls, pointing them at the group of assembled people.

Emma ignored him, picking up the conversation, "I am Emma, High Priestess of Lothric." She introduced, "We seek a way into the Boreal Valley, but to get there, we need a key from the Deep Cathedral. We need your help."

"The Boreal Valley?" she echoed, "Yes, I have heard a tyrannical Pontiff has come down from the north with an army, I guess all the people who poured in around here are from Lothric afterall. In truth, me and Horace have been away for a long time, and aren't too sure what's happened here." she sighed, "Our mission is to destroy the vile Man-eater Aldrich. We broke into the Cathedral, but were overwhelmed. It is only thanks to this kind stranger we did not perish." She said, motioning to Mason.

Emma studied her quizzically, "You broke into the Cathedral to slay Aldrich?" she asked, "If you did, I'm afraid you're nearly thirty years too late."

"What?" She exclaimed, "But… why?"

"The tyrant Sulyvahn that vexes us is in fact the Pontiff of the Deep." She said, "Aldrich has returned to his true home, Irithyll, to eat a god of the old royal line. It appears we share a mutual enemy."

"I see." The girl said, "Then the Deep religion did not dwindle, but grow stronger than ever."

"How old are you?" Emma asked, "You don't know anything of what's happened to Aldrich for half a century, yet you have no shortage of knowledge of him."

"I do not know." The knightess said, "We… well… we." She seemed choked up, her breath becoming uneven. "I'm sorry, it is painful to remember."

"A long time ago, before Aldrich became a Lord of Cinder," Emma said, edging towards them, "there was a legend that two children, a boy and girl, managed to escape from his clutches. It is unknown to this day how they made it out, but there were definitely a pair of sacrifices that escaped their fate. The search was great, but they were never found."

The woman hung her head, shaking as Emma asked, "Are you those children?"

There was a period of uneasy quiet, before the woman uttered a barely audible "Yes, we are." After a moment, she continued, "They destroyed our families, but for some reason, we were spared." She clasped her arm, "They did- things, to both of us. Unimaginable things. But through all of the pain, and all of the shame, we found eachother and were able to hang on. Horace murdered an executioner, he's stronger, and braver than I. He took his armor and ran away with me. We left the land, and dedicated ourselves to getting stronger, strong enough that one day, we could return and put a stop to Aldrich. But- in the end, we couldn't. We then made the sacrifice, and attempted to the Link the Fire, one act of defiance to take control of our lives. But, I guess we couldn't even do that much. We couldn't even become cinders for the fire." She sobbed, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to lay my burdens on you, but, when we returned, we set out to become stronger, a second chance to finish what we started. But, no matter how much time passes, I'm just too weak." Horace placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, breathing deeply,

"Hey," Mason offered, "At least you went down fighting, there's a lot of people who would just give up after that many setbacks. You were brave to go in, with just the two of you."

"Thank you for your kind words." She responded, "truly."

"What is your name?" Emma asked,

"I am Anri of Astora. This is my dear companion, Horace."

"Anri, as I said, we need a key from the Deep Cathedral to break into Irithyll." Emma said, "Sulyvahn is holding the Firekeeper prisoner, who likely holds the key to victory against Irithyll. As of this moment, you may be the only one outside the Cathedral of Deep who knows its inner workings."

"What are you saying?"

"Try again, Anri." Emma encouraged, "Help us bring down this vile evil. We can only prevail if all of us stand together."

"You would give an unkindled like me another chance? Yes!" she exclaimed, "I would be overjoyed if I could help you."

"You have our gratitude," Emma asked, "we will need to convene again, tomorrow, and find out where to go from here."

"Are you certain?" Atticus asked, turning to face the high priestess, "Every day counts."

"I agree," Gundyr said, "Any day could be one day too late."

"It will make no difference." Emma said, "We need to organize a party, gather supplies, plot an expedition. There will be a great deal of preparing by our knights, but all of you need your rest, you are no use to anyone exhausted."

It was true, even the mighty Champion was feeling the fatigue weighing on him, the burns on his chest still aching. The people in charge would have a lot to busy themselves with, but maddeningly, talking about how he was going to rip the life from anything between him and Firekeeper short of parting the mountains was not going to make the lengthy preparations go any faster.

"Alright." He said, already going. "Leave me alone for awhile." Nobody challenged him, the Champion noting to himself the very particular scent emanating from Anri. She was touched by the Abyss, and he would not allow that to escape his focus, but for now he was too forlorn to worry about interrogating a young woman.

He walked himself into the woods, away from people, away from the fort and the planners and generals. Away from reality. He found a closed grotto, the sun shining down on him. He planted his halberd in a tree with a dull thud, stripping all his armor off, one piece at a time, the iron clanking as it heaped up, his thin beard slightly puffing up once it was released from the confines of his helm.

He slipped into the water, warmer than a bath as it soaked in the sun, Gundyr settling down on the loose silt until all but his face was submerged, the sun beating down on his eyelids. He could feel warmth all across him, across all the scars and burns and blisters that riddled his flesh, his giant muscles misshapen at points where they were pulled and strained.

The sun was more than simply warm, it was nourishing to him, a beacon of pure soul power, the lifeblood of the Light Age.

When he was a little boy, he wondered why anyone would Link the Fire. Why women would face mutilation and humiliation to keep the fires. Now that he was old, close to ancient even, he understood. When he saw the sun rise, felt it for the first time in his life, he was bewitched. He just stood on the mountaintop, his mind unable to fully absorb a world so full of color and life. It was nirvana, and after the shock passed, he only wished the world could be so bright again.

It was so selfish, to want to wipe away the filth and grime, to spend a fleeting moment soaking up a sun built on the sacrifice of the only friend he had left, but he needed it. Needed a moment to appreciate what he was fighting for, and clear his mind. He would never prevail with a heart clouded by doubt and fear, he needed to be strong. For…

She came into his soul like a falling star, shattering everything else. His own Sun, which always haunted him the moment he let his guard down, the moment he felt even the faintest joy. With her pale, soft skin, hair like fire and eyes as blue as the ocean, with a smile that could open the heavens. She had the body of a woman, but a firestorm in her bosom, her form lithe but strong, her hands scarred from a lifetime of honest work alongside him, an air of being ready to fight the world if it ever turned on him. The one thing that granted him true solace in the wretched abyss he was born into, her hopeful gaze telling him to win.

Gundyr drifted far away, deep into the past, tears streaming down the sides of his face.

* * *

 _Plip. Plop._

 _Plip. Plop._

 _Splish. Splash._

 _Splish._

 _Water drips upwards down here, towards a drowned sun, reaching its fingers through the deep ocean, the world ocean, where all souls were laid bare to be swallowed by the murk. The dregs were the anchor that formed the foundation, and that foundation was the bedrock of water. Bedrock needed water proofing, lest it fall through the murk into the chasm, where all things fell to stupefaction._

 _Men resisted the water, their brains burnt out by blistering bewilderment, their eyes breaking open in cracks and blisters, spurting reaching tendrils up, out, out through the water, towards the burning brightest bright eye of all._

 _Smell the ashes, the ashes the ashes, turning to ashes, sifting through the drips of water, climbing up, up. Each little flicker of the waters holding a cosmos of multitudes, all drops together the waters that stopped the ashes, the greedy ashes, the burning ashes…_

A pair of black orbs crept open, dilating until they swallowed the entire sockets beneath his shining golden crown, its shafts wreathing his head like the spokes of a sun.

 _What a wonderful dream._ The God of Deep mused, a dream so deep and so pure, he didn't want to awaken. He felt he could sleep forever, as he saw so much more with his eyes closed than open. The divine force that moved him drew his slimy body, condensed into a roughly serpentine shape, around him, lifting his new body.

He was still getting accustomed to having a singular body moving his multitudes, but he was adjusting nicely. Gwyndolyn's body was cleansed of its imperfect, pitiable nature, replaced by the glory of Aldrich's essence. His strength had always demanded respect, but now he was beautiful and filled with grace as well.

The divine Crown and staff of the Darkmoon were fitting weapons for him, and Gwyndolyn's power of souls and illusions had greatly enhanced his sorcery. No longer were the visions murky and blurry. He could stare across the infinite waters with perfect clarity, he could peer into every drop of water, into every dreg that formed the basin, and know it.

He clutched the staff close to himself with one hand, stroking himself with the other. He at last felt whole, complete, and he would only become more whole, find greater completeness.

Someone came into the damp, murky court of the ruined cathedral, his throne room, stepping into the grey, gloomy interior beneath the flowing curtains and stained glass windows. Pushing a figure along in a wheelchair.

As Aldrich loomed high on his own bodice, the humans below him appearing as fragile and tiny as gnats to his ascended form, he took note of the denizen of the wheelchair. He was a tiny, shriveled thing, his skin burned a deep brown and wrinkled, his garb drenched in soot. The hem fell limply below the seat at the bottom, since his legs were sliced off above the knee. His hands were crossed in front of his mouth, the Lord of Cinder seeming bored of all things, a mock crown sitting on his brow, indicating his lordship.

A thin smile spread across Aldrich's lips.


	5. Painted World

A/N: What is that? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT.

That's not true, that's impossible!

 _WTF Boooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaah_

Yup, a new chapter, and it only took THREE FUCKING DAYS. I got on a writing kick and the ideas were flowing, so I pounded this out record time. Not quite a double upload, but I'm happy. Next one will probably take a bit to avoid burnout, and this is a little bit of an interlude, but nonetheless, it is my treat to you.

* * *

For a brief period, time was stopped. The glorious Aldrich, Lord of the Deep, facing down the small Ludleth, Lord of Cinder, neither moving nor flinching, just sizing eachother up. Aldrich was especially surprised the tiny thing, barely fit to be called a lord, regarded him without a single trace of fear or awe, as so many had before.

"Leave us." Aldrich spoke, relishing the feminine, yet commanding voice he enjoyed from Gwyndolyn's body, and the pleasing feeling of having a mouth and tongue again. The servant hurried on his way, leaving Ludleth to his fate.

After a moment, it was actually the small Ludleth that spoke, his voice low and raspy, but containing a sly edge that amused the Lord of Deep,

"So, thou art the exalted Aldrich," He said, "How do you do."

"You regard me with such a familiar tone for a piece of meat." Aldrich scoffed,

"Are we both not Lords of Cinder?" he said, "I came here of mine own desire, your men were even so polite as to carry me all this way. It would have been tiring to bring myself this distance."

Aldrich grinned, "I had heard you were a wise man, that you were a master scholar of the Dark, turned Lord of Cinder. Even after burning, you were considered on par with the likes of Yhorm and the Undead Legion in order to be brought back, for reasons I cannot even understand. Even still, I did not take you for someone to make such outrageous bluffs."

"You flatter me," Ludleth spoke, "I cannot say if I am wise, but I was the greatest of all practitioners of soul transposition, you know. And I mean exactly what I say."

"Hmph, you seem to believe us equals." Aldrich stated, scanning Ludleth's sly, composed eyes, "You truly have no fear of me, do you?"

"If I perish, I will merely return to the Kiln, where I belong." Ludleth replied, "I have no fear of death. I have embraced mine fate. When I burn again, I will turn to nothingness, and I can finally sleep."

"I'm not going to kill you," Aldrich bayed, "I will devour you, your soul will join with mine, and if I'm feeling merciful I may allow a small piece of your body to remain intact inside my stomach. You are going nowhere."

"My, my." Ludleth spoke, smirking behind his hands, his ceaseless confidence starting to annoy the Lord of Deep, "Such vulgar language. Methinks thou wilt not be satisfied until you break me, but, I tell you, my body may be small and burnt, but my soul is as a mountain. Thy insults will blow against it in vain."

"Hrmm." Aldrich sighed, his vast body covering the floor starting to creep in on the helpless lord, "A pity, at least Gwyndolin tried to resist, yet you hurry towards my embrace without a thought."

"Is that what thine belief is?"

Aldrich grimaced, Ludleth's insufferable attitude started to irk him, "Tell me something before I swallow you. If you really did choose to come here, what did you believe would come of it? What motivation could you possibly have for approaching my throne?"

"A friendly warning." Ludleth said, the faint nonchalance of his tone fading, "Thy crusade to conquer the flame will end very badly for thee. Doest thou forget that countless Dark Lords have come before thee, and all of them fell from grace in due time?"

"I am not like them, I have devoured gods, I have ascended beyond their scope."

"I don't believe so, but if thou hast a true lord become, did you ever wonder why, in all these thousands of years, none of the Dark Lords took the First Flame from its mantle. Doest thou honestly believe you are the first to try?' Aldrich frowned, Ludleth continuing, "Assuming making an adversary of the world does not turn on you, and assuming thou gainst entry to the Kiln, you will still never lay a finger on the flame."

"And why is that?"

"I have seen what lies in the Kiln, the final reward for those would see the flame extinguished. When those who desire the fading of the flame rise, so too does the Incarnation of Kings, the soul of all the cinders within the flame." Ludleth looked Aldrich right in the eyes, piercing his crown with his gaze, "Thou may'st reach the Kiln, but thou may'st have every mountain and ocean obstructing thy path, for thou wilt be no closer to the flame. It would be pitiable, to go all that way for nothing."

Aldrich sneered, "'Soul of Cinder', what nonsense. The Lords of Cinder are nothing but useless ashes, nothing more. They forfeited their right to embrace true lordship by foolishly taking a throne which only takes away. What use is a throne that strips lordship, rather than grants it?"

"If you ever believed the title 'Lord of Cinder' was taken for personal power, thou art truly lost." Ludleth said, shifting in his chair, "I see there is no getting through to thee. Just know I tried to grant you the courtesy of fair forewarning."

"I'll be sure to take care." Aldrich's slimy tendrils swept towards the meager Lord, springing upon him.

Aldrich saw the briefest flash, before the tendrils were shredded and blown back, Aldrich wincing as the pieces of himself rained back down on the floor, quickly being assimilated. Ludleth gazed at him smugly,

"What art thou waiting for? Claim thy prize." Aldrich grit his teeth, a torrent of seething ooze enveloping the Lord of Cinder, only to get eviscerated once again, the tide getting down back away. This time Aldrich could see them; threads of light that caused his body to violently explode and shred on contact, the strands of soul power fading as quickly as they came.

Ludleth's expression completely shifted, faint, black fires tracing up his arm,

"For a man who places such faith in visions, thou art a poor listener." Soul power erupted from the Lord of Cinder, black and violet flames, enriched by the First Flame, forming an aura around him while the sheer force of his presence drove the pool of Aldrich's sludge-like body away, the intensity of his strength taking the greater lord off guard.

Ludleth brought his hand to chest level, a singularity of raw power collapsing into the center of his palm, Ludleth shooting a blinding beam of black light that forked into smaller beams, all homing in on Aldrich, who dove down, seeming to vanish in the floor while the homing rays flew into the floor, burning holes in his body and splintering the tile beneath.

The wounds quickly healed shut as Aldrich erupted from the ground again, a giant grin crossing his face cheek to cheek. The Lord of Cinder raised a hand over his head, a giant black sphere surrounded by swirling humanity phantoms appearing, which Ludleth hurled at the Lord of Deep. Aldrich, laughing with glee, brought his staff up, unholy, snow white and black power not too different from Ludleth's appearing over his staff and forming a reaper scythe, the blade cleaving through the humanities and scattering the spell.

The Lifehunt vanished as Aldrich sprung forward, slithering at Ludleth at lightning speeds while a burning Gravelord sword appeared on the tip of his staff, forming a cutting edge. He swung down towards the Lord of Cinder, the veins on Ludleth's face nearly rupturing with effort as a rift in space itself tore open before Aldrich's eyes, his blade falling through the black wound, Aldrich hearing a second appear behind him.

The Lord of Deep narrowly dodged his own attack as he ducked around it, withdrawing his blade and turning towards Ludleth, who was clutching a violet beam in his hand-

Aldrich swept to the side, slithering at high speeds as the purple ray sliced a rift everywhere it touched, emitting a ringing sound as the sludge smoked and hissed around its path. Aldrich's main body circling a pillar, the beam slicing the head of a silver knight statue.

The beam stopped as Aldrich came around, stamping his staff on the ground and summoning a myriad of blue orbs, each one humming with strength, hurling them at the prone Lord while the tip of his staff was brought towards the ground, glowing brightly.

Ludleth put his hands forward, a crackling violet ring forming around his body, the magic reflecting off the barrier, or rather, ceasing to exist and turning into arcane mist before the soulmasses could reach him. Aldrich swept his staff forwards, unleashing the massive bolt of arcane power he stored up, the ray howling as it flew through the air, the thing larger than most human bodies.

The bolt struck the anti-magic field hard, the Lord of Cinder enveloped with light. The Lord of Deep grinned, immediately faltering when the ray collapsed, Ludleth compressing the beam into the palm of his hands, the broiling magic power emitting blinding light from the sheer concentration of it, before it vanished.

Aldrich blinked, a bright light falling across his face, the Lord of Deep recoiling as the compressed energy was unleased from that single point in an instant. Gwyndolyn's powers, which created illusions so powerful they became physical and real, coated his body like stone armor, deflecting the majority of the blast, though, when the light cleared, The Lord of Deep was visibly burned at the extremities.

Aldrich was blinking away the haze, seeing Ludleth in his chair panting heavily, with beads of sweat pouring down his face.

"Is that all you have?" Aldrich leered, Ludleth raising in his seat,

" _Not bloody likely_ ," He muttered to himself, pressing his palms together and projecting a ring of Dark across the ground, deep in concentration. Aldrich reeled as the field disintegrated his body wherever it touched, geysers of dark shooting from the evaporated slime over an area of nearly fifty feet. The Deep Lord realized, as the torrents started to bubble together and fuse, his body was not merely destroyed, it was transposed-

Scraps of life erupted from the ground, drawing the souls of the dead from within Aldrich's own body, the humanity phantoms holding the same melted look as always, only these were more defined, with emaciated skulls, open, screaming mouths and oblong eye sockets, their skeletal arms reaching out in front of them, seeming to claw their way through the air as they flew, each one twice the size of the human they came from.

 _What power…_ Aldrich thought, licking his lips as he brought his scythe over his shoulder, Lifehunt appearing over the holy rod once again as the macabre swarm of angry spirits swarmed towards him erratically, each cleave of his scythe scattering them, absorbing their souls back into himself even as a few rammed into him, moved by some form of intense love, or hatred.

While their Dark power didn't harm him, they were incredibly heavy and weighty with energy, each erupting phantom cracking ribs and shattering bones as they filled the air with an audible crack, Aldrich spurting black blood from his mouth as one struck him directly in the chest.

When the scraps relented, Aldrich turned back, finding the space Ludleth occupied empty-

A lance of spiraling violet power, faster and sharper than any Soul Spear, pieced Aldrich's back, destroying Gwyndolyn's heart, his mouth open as he felt the intense pain of the wound in his chest.

"Ghagh!" He spouted, his bruised arms clutching his chest, looking back over his shoulder,

Ludleth had teleported himself to the top level, sniping him with the spear of souls in his moment of distraction,

"I am a Lord of Cinder, I have no shame in my Lordship!" He shouted, though it was clear he was breathless, the veins on his already darkened eyes and skin ruptured, covering him with bruises as he pushed his small body to its absolute limit.

Aldrich quivered, his face contorting.

" _He. Heh. Heh_." The Deep Lord started to convulse, blood pouring from his mouth as he started to laugh, filling the ruined hall with his uncontrollable hysteria, Aldrich delirious with ecstasy, the small Ludleth's confidence wavering, "Yes," he moaned, "I was afraid that after I'd ascended to Lordship, I would no longer be able to feel the joy of struggle," he cooed, "Come, resist me more, give me the pleasure of pushing you further. You believe the loss of _one of_ my hearts is enough to end this fight?" he called, his true body covering the floor swiftly flowing up the walls and pillars, "I am everywhere, this vessel, I can repair it at my leisure. Unlike you, my soul is not bound to mere flesh and bones." Even as he said this, he drew sustenance from the souls within him, their long dissolved forms flowing through Gwyndolyn's veins, turning into new flesh, new bones, the wounds and even his godly heart being restored, "I am the conflux, upon which the Deep converges, all the flesh and bones and souls within it obey my will, for I am Lord!"

Ludleth frowned, "It appears thou art not so pale an imitation of a Lord afterall." He surrendered, Aldrich's heart racing, cold sweat trailing down his face as he crept in on the Lord of Cinder.

"Don't feel too discouraged, your brilliant Soul will become my own, and your strength will raise the Deep higher, become foundation to the new world. You should be honored to be stripped of your humiliating 'Lord of Cinder' title. I will put your powers of Dark to far more use than you have."

"I think not." Ludleth said, his defiant smirk returning as bands of light encircled him. "Mine power is not in its entirety spent. Farewell."

Aldrich grit his teeth, flying forward in a rage as Ludleth teleported away, " _No!_ " he swept his staff at empty air, the Lord of Cinder already gone. Ludleth positioned himself at a distance intentionally, so he could ready the spell if his final stroke failed. Aldrich was rightfully angry, but at the same time respectful of his intelligence.

Ludleth was never known for his offensive strength, but he put up a surprising amount of resistance, enough to amuse the Lord of Deep at the very least. Aldrich clutched his stomach, which was starting to feel hunger pangs.

How curious, since his inferior body melted away to better reflect the Deep, such gestures usually didn't occur to him, but since he inhabited Gwyndolin such behaviors were starting to come back. All the better, the more adjusted he became to exercising his desires through his sensual vessel, the more he would be grounded in this plane, and enjoy the benefits it brought him.

Several guardsmen came running in from outside, "Lord Aldrich, what's happened, are you hurt?"

"Hardly." Aldrich replied calmly, though they edged away from him. He noticed that whenever he grew hungry, they had that reaction, the Lord of Deep smiling, "I'm afraid I've lost some of my… mass." He spoke, his body creeping towards them, "bring me something to rejuvenate myself, if you would please. Bring many."

"Right away, my Lord." The attendants said, hurrying away, likely to bring him slaves and undesirables from the lower court of Irithyll, though Aldrich cared not for age or gender, class or creed, he was past such petty details.

He felt an overwhelming dissatisfaction. We wanted Ludleth so badly, he would have tasted sublime, he could tell. There was nothing worse than working himself so close to his prey, only to be denied the climax.

No matter, soon enough, Ludleth would be brought back, along with the other Lords of Cinder. Aldrich curled up on himself, settling in for a nap to pass the time, until he could eat again.

* * *

The snows were quiet, as they always were, the gentle flakes wandering aimlessly beneath the moonlight, the auroras of the Boreal Valley streaking the skies with vibrant colors against the otherwise total blackness. The dark sun was immense on the horizon, larger and more luminous here than anywhere else in the world, the entire Boreal Valley aglow, and she wondered if the sun was brighter somewhere else.

For the crossbreed girl, snow and moonlight were the only things she really knew. Night and day never came to Anor Londo, there was only the eternal moonlight of her brother, but she believed this was her home for a terribly long time. Some around her referred to "cycles" or "ages", each age a period of 1000 years, though these numbers only confused her. She knew she lived in Anor Londo a terribly high number of years, but she could not fully appreciate the sum of all them, vague ideas always seeming to slip past her.

Yorshka was met with ridicule, and even hatred for how slow she could be sometimes, and the knights of Father Gwyn blamed her heritage. She could not fully understand why they would regard her with such contempt, and her brother spoke little of it, always seeming ashamed about something, though he was the gentlest soul she knew.

Because of these things, she had no idea how long she was confined to the top of the great tower she was imprisoned in, but she knew that, in all her life, the years never felt so long and so lonely. She saw a number of prisoners, specks in the distance from her viewpoint, being lead to the steps of the cathedral.

The guards always came back down the steps, but her people never did, and she knew they met the same fate as Brother Gwyndolin, the thought filling her with sorrow. How many had she watched perish? How long was she forced to suffer alone in the tower? She lost count of many times she saw this ritual of bringing people into her rightful home to die.

As she did when she saw Aldrich ascend the steps all those ages ago, there was nothing she could do but watch. The lift never pointed her way, and she lacked the wings to fly or magic to carry her. She wished she was not imprisoned outside, then, she could at least not be reminded of her helpless situation.

Sometimes, she considered plunging herself off the tower, into the open air. Perhaps she would sprout wings and fly, perhaps she would fall to the ground below and join her brother again, anything to escape the misery of being stranded here. Alas, though these thoughts drove her to the edge of the balcony, beckoning to her, she could not.

Her brother told her that after Father Gwyn passed, it was the solemn duty of his children to carry on his legacy, and preserve the world he worked so hard to create. Brother Gwyndolin raised her up as a good child, proper and just, and free of the dark desires and corruptions of the world outside so she could become a blade that hunted the enemies of the gods. She already failed him in the worst way imaginable, she did not want to dishonor his death as well by surrendering her life.

If she perished, Sulyvahn's evil mission would be complete, and the Blades of the Darkmoon would be truly broken. The world would become without light, without gods to protect it. She looked to the horizon, past the stairs of Anor Londo and into the mountains far beyond.

No, the Royal Family would not be lost with her. How could it? Somewhere out there, far beyond, Gwyndolin's brother still lived. She'd never had the honor of setting eyes upon him, but Brother Gwyndolin said that as Sister Gwynevere was as bountiful and soothing as the light of the sun, her eldest brother was as mighty and terrifying as the winds of a hurricane, and the flashes of lightning.

He was fearless, strong, and noble, and nothing could break his will in the face of adversity. Gwyndolin was the most benevolent creature she knew, and he voiced his desire to be so great a king as he, Yorshka trying to form images of him in the falling snow.

Against everything, she still held on to the faint hope that one day, he would come back home, and she would be there to welcome him when he set things right again, but it was hard to hold on sometimes.

Lately, more and more of Sulyvahn's minions could be seen swarming the Cathedral, disembarking south, Yorshka unknowing of their intent, but it was surely to abuse the weakness of father's knights for Sulyvahn's twisted ends.

She drew her chime from beside her, lifting it up in her fingers. The grip was crafted of the same ancient, pale brass used to build the armor of the mighty giant sentinels that protected the Cathedral, and was covered with fine ornaments. The bottom, which housed the bell, was smooth, devoid of features, and made of pale white iron that glowed softly in the moonlight. Brother Gwyndolin said it was made in her image, and she alone was allowed to carry it with her.

Despite the utter blackness of his heart, Sulyvahn allowed her to keep it, even when he stripped everything away. She'd asked him why he didn't just kill her, end her life as he so ruthlessly ended Gwyndolin's, why he somehow deemed her life worth sparing when the Dark Sun was so much more deserving.

She didn't remember his exact response, but he said Gwyndolin begged for mercy upon her, and the false Pontiff granted it, returning her sacred chime alongside the promise she would live. It didn't matter anyway, she already tried to strike Sulyvahn down with her miracles, but such a virulent creature of Dark was immune to her efforts.

She still remembered the day she got the sacred bell, every moment as clearly defined as the snows around her, despite the fathomless ages that passed since them.

There was once a great hall, exactly where she sat, which housed a painted world where she was born. There were few people there. Her mother, a gaggle of strange men in tattered clothes, who didn't speak very much, and the crows, which worshipped her and mother. There were others, but they were reclusive and didn't recognize her.

Mother hated Yorshka. She didn't understand why. Yorshka tried her best to be a good girl, and please her, but every time she was near, the lady of the painted world stared at her with a depth of hatred that still haunted Yorshka. The crows took care of her from the moment she was born. They clothed her, taught her to speak, and how to fight, though she seldom needed to. The land was peaceful, its inhabitants kind. Yet there was an unspoken desire to escape to the outside world, which Yorshka knew nothing of until one day, the painting opened.

She trailed closely behind her mother, as did the crows, everyone seeming rightfully nervous as they departed the world of snow and ruin. Yorshka was met by a great hallway, the golden architecture faded and dull, but it had an air of importance and preservation, the floor smooth tiles of green, white, and gold that felt wonderful against Yorshka's bare feet, the pillars reaching higher than most of the buildings in Ariamis.

She saw her brother for the first time, lips bent in a faint frown. He had a golden crown resembling something she would come to know as the sun obscuring his eyes, while his body was draped with robes the color of snow down to his ankles, where several curious dragon tails sprawled in place of feet, though they were smooth and soft, not like a dragon.

"Priscilla," he spoke softly, Yorshka's mother cold and distant,

"Why hast thou opened Ariamis?" She said, bitter tears in her eyes "What trespass have I committed against thee to make thou desirest more torment?"

"This is no trick," Gwyndolin said, "Dark has fallen, and the fire of our world goes unkindled. I have decided against keeping the Painted World a prison any longer. I am the last god in Anor Londo, perhaps one of the last in this world. I have judged it time for thee to depart."

"Where? Where can a crossbreed wretch like me go, in thine world?"

"It is mine world no longer." Gwyndolin said, "Until a champion chooses the link of fire over darkness, the power of the gods wanes to nothing. You and all who draw breath in Ariamis may depart to wherever thou mayst. Begin anew, and be bound here no longer, for thine crimes have since been long repaid by thine squalor and isolation."

Priscilla was breathing heavily, a few tall men in silver armor bristling at Gwyndolin's side, the crossbreed speaking, "Fine. I am taking mine people far away, where thine cruelty will never reach." She said, "If thou forswears this, and gives pursuit, thy cruelty shalt not go unpunished, not this time." She said, her great, twisted scythe resting in her hand, "That is my promise."

Gwyndolin spoke, his tone even, but stern, "Thy bitterness is misplaced. In time past, thy fearful Lifehunt and treacherous Velka needed a place from this world separate, for the good of the realm. Father Gwyn showed thee mercy, and permitted thee and thine kin to live in exile where most would face thee with execution. A sad fate to live alone it may be, but among thy kind you were. Didst thou not find relief in thy company?"

"Mercy?" Priscilla growled, her pale face filled with sorrow and rage, the crossbreed's flame dying as it appeared, "There was no such thing for us. Thy hatred left us scarred, and afraid. A peace we did not enjoy overlong, and at the heart of such sad happenings was thy father."

"And what crime did the Great Lord commit, to have aroused such discord?"

Priscilla turned towards her young daughter, Yorshka feeling the lash before she could even give it, "Many of us painfully cut down, when we could not defend ourselves and meant not one shred of ill will. And for me, personally, the gift of a bastard daughter, born from the seed he forced inside me."

Yorshka curled into a ball, Gwyndolin nearly shouting, "What doest thou imply? What impure words caress thy tongue?"

A silver knight drew his sword, "Blasphemy! Thy lewd delusions have inspired thee to claim such outrageous trespass!" He shouted, "Rescind thy insult, or I shalt cut away thy heretical tongue!"

"Thou may'st believe it or no," Priscilla said, "The word of a… 'miserable half-breed', in his words, means nothing to the gods, but I attest it. To the end of fire and dark, to the sky above and earth below, to every flake of snow that falls upon this world, I attest thy father was to us cruel and angry. Look upon the proclaimed abomination at my side, three-quarters god by Gwyn and my mother Velka, doest thou see'st no resemblance?"

Yorshka looked up at the figure before her, his crown tilted down to see her on the floor. The little of his face she could see was similar to hers, in fact, other than mother's scales, which she inherited around her cheeks and eyes, their facial structure, lips, and skin, were identical. But more than that, she could feel his soul, and how deeply hers resonated with his, and she could feel the same recognition in him.

There was no doubt in her mind, she could feel the soul she inherited from her father, and the soul he inherited from his father, were the same.

"Impossible." Gwyndolin said, though he disbelieved himself. After a pause, even the silver knights realizing it, Gwyndolin turned to Priscilla, standing high, "What doest thou expect from I?"

"Nothing." Priscilla said, starting to fly alongside the storytellers, some glancing at her, while others simply followed, unwilling to leave their lady, "When I look into her face, I see only her father. I don't want to see it ever again. Do what thou mayst with her, I will find somewhere at the ends of the world to call home, where the gods cannot find."

She vanished into a snowy mist, sweeping away with everyone else, their feathered wings beating the air as they flew away, flocking outside the exit on the far side. Yorshka, wingless, just watched after them, pleading to herself that someone, anyone, would stay behind.

 _Don't go. Someone, don't leave me_. Despite these prayers, Yorshka felt their presence wane, and then vanish. She sat cross legged, sobbing as her tail curled protectively around her midsection, left alone with these strange people in a strange land, not understanding why she deserved this.

A silver knight advanced on her, his sword still in hand, Yorshka's breath catching as he closed in on her.

"Halt." Gwyndolin ordered, the silver knight unfaltering,

"This abomination must be destroyed. No-one can know it exists." He said, raising his sword, Yorshka putting her hand up as a golden arrow made a sharp crack and knocked it from his hands.

"That was an order." Gwyndolin said, stowing his bow on his back, the silver knight turning on his master,

"Why? How could thee raise thy hand in defense of this bastard? Knowest thou the consequences of such a travesty being known? I cannot suffer the- sickening idea a whore crossbreed could lie with our Great Lord. In a moment of weakness, he committed a mistake, wouldst thou have that mistake be allowed to mar his sacrifices?"

"I am fully aware how this child would stain the Great Lord's name." Gwyndolin replied firmly, "Not a soul beyond the walls of Anor Londo will be aware the fourth child of the Great Lord exists. But as the head of this house, it is my duty to account for the crimes within its walls. Were father alive, he would take responsibility for his misdeeds, in his one moment of weakness. As he is among the dead, I will take that responsibility on mineself." He spoke, his tails working to bring him closer, until Gwyndolin loomed over the young crossbreed, Yorshka petrified to stand before him, clutching herself tighter. "Speak thy name."

Yorshka shook her head, Gwyndolin repeating,

"I must have something to call thee. I am Gwyndolin, the Dark Sun, you are my sister, and the Sun's Lastborn after me."

"I can't," Yorshka whispered, "Mother refused to recognize me."

Gwyndolin paused, "I see. Thou art born of a terrible mistake, such you were deemed unworthy of a name." He reached out to her, "Prithee sister, come with me."

Yorshka stared at his pale, thin hand, a thing foreign to her, before she finally reached out, Gwyndolin's palm wrapping around hers as he lifted her to her feet. It was so warm here, compared to Ariamis, and his hand felt warmer still, the young crossbreed sure her hand must be like ice to him, yet he didn't complain as his surprisingly agile tendrils worked him along at her pace, his torso gliding over the floor.

The young crossbreed was terrified, but she hadn't the heart to resist as he led her. The Silver Knights continued to stare balefully, whispering among themselves alongside numerous men clad entirely in white and wielding short, steeply curved swords. One called, "Thou art the rightful king of Anor Londo, but we have valiantly dedicated our lives to the slaying of dragons, a practice that cost countless score of us." He spoke, "News of thy… sister, and your decision to shelter her, will not be taken gently."

"I am aware." He replied, "At what point were mine words ever truly respected by thee, most faithful knights of the Great Lord?"

When they left the painting hall, and the only world Yorshka knew, she was taken aback by the sheer scale of the ruined cathedral, when it was whole and new. Even in the dark it shone as a beacon of light and majesty, its great pillars and spires seeming to touch the sky. While old all the stones and tiles were polished and ground to a smooth finish, all the metal shining brass and gold. Then, it was truly the house of legends and gods, with only a whisper of the eternal night that would come to define it.

She had a strange feeling in her heart as her brother lead her into the great hall, the interior dark, but not impossible to navigate as they ascended the steps into the hall where the living quarters branched out, Yorshka seeing the fine wallpaper, masterfully hand woven carpets and antique pots, the oil canvases depicting great figures and legends, how clean and shiny everything was, and almost disbelieved it was real.

She saw luxuries she didn't even know existed, which only made her feel more apart as she trudged along in her filthy, one-piece garb that hung down from her shoulders, which she'd worn since a little after she was born, sometimes going naked when she needed to get it mended, as the Painted World was not without hazards and had very little in terms of material to work with. Yorshka's tail stayed close to her leg, the crossbreed hanging her head as people stared at her on passing, feeling how unwelcome she was, though Gwyndolin's presence kept them from acting on it.

Gwyndolin led her to a grand bedroom, Yorshka feeling it was a little musty with disuse, but it was still cleaner than anywhere she slept in Ariamis.

"This will be thine quarters," Gwyndolin spoke, "I believe thou art of the stature of a Silver Knight, or will be, when thou reacheth maturity. Everything here should sustain thee." He let go of her hand, rummaging a little in the dresser and coming back, "These clothes should fit thee, change into them if thou wilt. I will not have mine sister running around in rags."

Yorshka went to the cabinet, pulling out great dresses of snow white, a few sizes too large, but something she could slip into, Yorshka tangling her fingers in all the weaving and straps. There were other articles of clothing she didn't recognize, and she turned to Gwyndolin in confusion, staring yearningly at him,

"I'm sorry, but I have not had to dress in so much. I can only slip on my robe." She squeaked, her voice tiny in the room made for giants.

"Ah," Gwyndolin sighed, "Of course thou hast no idea how to apply proper attire. Ariamis is an uncultured mess of filth to raise a girl within."

"I'm sorry," Yorshka apologized, "I don't know much about anything."

Gwyndolin reached down, Yorshka hesitantly allowing him to pull her gown off, the hot air sending trails of sweat down Yorshka's cold skin as he led her to a bathroom to sponge her off, scrubbing the caked dirt, grime, and sweat off her body and combing her hair out roughly. He then led her hands as she dressed in enough layers of clothes to make her dizzy, the fabric tight and hot.

Undergarments, stockings, shoes, shirt, gown, the slightly oversized attire getting laced down. Yorshka's legs felt odd at being unable to feel her tail, which was currently pushing against the hem of her gown while it rubbed on her stockings.

"No, this will not do." Gwyndolin sighed, "Even still, you look presentable. I will have a dress tailored for you soon." He slithered to the door, "Stay here awhile, I will return posthaste."

Yorshka nodded, Gwyndolin closing the door behind him. The crossbreed sat on the bed, which was so soft all she could do was rub her hands on the covers, laying out and trying to consider this her home, though she couldn't. Everything was too bright, too warm.

None of this belonged to her, and she felt that Gwyndolin's courtesy was not genuine, though she could not tell why. She was called foolish more times than she could count, such that she expected not to understand.

Awhile later, he came back, bearing a pair of shiny items in his hands. He gave her the first, a bell of gold and white, Yorshka hesitantly taking it.

"It's warm." She exclaimed, the sacred metal still hot from the forge. She rung the bell, its peals high and long, the rings filling the room with its sonorous voice.

"The Giant Blacksmith made it for thee," Gwyndolin said, "The peaceable old man doesn't even know what a crossbreed is, but I tell you, he's the greatest craftsman in the realm. What thine hands grasp is a caller of miracles, mine gift to you, to commemorate your arrival to Anor Londo as my sister."

Yorshka examined it, her gift, her eyes drawn to a long set of engravings along the grip, turning it sideways and seeing they were letters, the young crossbreed trying to decipher them,

"Your-shh- ka? What is 'Yorshka'?"

"It is thy name, mine sister." Gwyndolin spoke, "It means 'without flavor' or 'pure', a fitting name for a child of the Great Lord."

"I am- Yorshka?" she asked, blinking, and finding she liked the sound. She was always called "child" or "Bastard". It was an ugly way to identify her, and it felt nice to possess her own name, even if she and her brother were the only ones who used it.

"Yes," he spoke, raising his second gift above her: a silver circlet, composed of a set of three bars meeting at a triangular piece with an inset emerald, "It is customary for a Lord and their family to bear a crown upon their brow. As the Great Lord, King of the Storm, Princess of Sunlight, and Dark Sun bore this symbol of authority, I bestow you with yours." He said, laying the circlet upon her, the gentle silver resting on her scaly brow. "Now, thou'rt a shade of the Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight. Sister of the Darkmoon. Thy rule will be recognized by none, exalted by none, but thou shalt my sister remain, and thou shalt be raised as a right and proper Lord."

Yorshka reached up, resting her fingers on her crown, the symbol of her newfound family, and for the first time in her memories, she smiled, if only because for once in her life she felt an overpowering emotion, what she would come to understand as "hope".

The chime continued to peal, its voice lost in the winds of Irithyll, its comforting rings out of earshot to all but its namesake owner.

Yorshka was ringing it to alleviate her loneliness, but with that joyous memory came sorrow, until Yorshka once again clasped the holy bell to her chest, and wept.

* * *

Cold, so cold. The Firekeeper, enveloped in her impenetrable shroud of blindness, which hid true darkness from her, had no real idea of her surroundings, only that everything had an icy chill. Occasionally, a handmaid came in to check on her, bringing her food, water, and wine, guiding her to the chamber pot, dressers, and her bed, which occupied what she guessed would be the back wall of the room.

She was getting more accustomed to her surroundings, used to feeling her way around and using the tips of her feet to check for walls and objects around her. Opposed to the hard, decaying stones of the shrine, and the ashen basin which held a fragment of the blazing First Flame, everything here was smooth and soft. She felt the luxurious touch of silver and gold, much like the silver that hid her vacant eye sockets, the gentleness of wool and silk, and whenever her shoes were removed, she could feel the waxy sheen of marble tiles on her soles.

She understood that wherever she was, it was the residence of a very wealthy noble, and the handmaidens who looked after the house, despite the Firekeeper's assurances, groomed her with a nearly obsessive drive. After a brief time, she came to realize their insistence was born of fear. Fear of their master, and what he would do them if he was not satisfied with the Firekeeper's condition, making her oblige them.

She did not delude herself with beliefs this treatment was in any way a kindness. The incredible coldness, born of the moonlight filtering through the windows, rend her heart like a great, bony hand. Every time they left her, she heard the heavy click of the door being locked.

Her cage was luxurious, but it remained a cage.

She remembered the terror of their entry. When she was watching the shrine, she heard the struggles of her guardian outside, only this was different. He emitted sounds of desperation and anger, before he went silent. Multitudes came into her sanctuary, and violently seized her, her heart and soul yearning for the warmth of the fire as she was pulled away from it.

Without eyes, and with her soul kept under strong binds, she knew full well how utterly defenseless she was, and submitted, shame drowning her as she was narrowly rescued by others, but by their admission they were all of the same allegiance, taking her captive.

Her fear from not understanding their intention did not subside, the Firekeeper dreading her future. With no protector, and no champion, she was at the mercy of these minions, and she conceived all manner of horrible fate that could befall her.

There were stories of Firekeepers being forced into all manner of vile thing, even at the hands of their champion, some killing them outright for sport, knowing they would only return and face them again. Others looked on the subservient maidens with lewd intentions, and others still tried to claim their soul after breaking their body.

In her conditioning, the Firekeeper heard much about the perils of her duty, and the potential horrors she must endure at all costs, for the good the realm, up to and including her death and rebirth. No matter what happened to her, she was not to retaliate or refuse her duty to aspiring champions, a fact many were abundantly aware of. Afterall, she could always be replaced, but the First Flame she warded over could not.

But, though she had no willpower or strength to refuse, and accepted every lash in kind, she feared these things, and did not desire them upon her.

On this occasion, fresh from being bathed and groomed, the winter chill seeping through her pale hair, she felt something enter. It was near, beyond the door to her quarters, and perhaps a wall, but the sheer immensity of his soul called like a beacon to her. It was so dense and so strong it made her heart race, and she prayed it did not come for her, but she felt it draw closer.

Muffled sounds came from beyond, and shortly after her door was unlocked, a great, black figure stepping into the chamber. She could not see him directly, but she could feel his presence, see the outline of a great, scarlet flame tinged with black in human form, standing over her, the Firekeeper's hands clasping over her chest.

She counted the beats of her heart, until he spoke, "How are you?" The Firekeeper gazed sightlessly at him, trying to mask her panic, her captor repeating, "Are you unharmed?" The Firekeeper hung her head,

"What do you want with me?"

"I want to know you are not dissatisfied with your accommodations." He said politely, "You are very important to me, and I want to make sure you have not felt any mistreatment or intolerance. I have come a long way to watch over you personally." The Firekeeper remained silent, the great soul asking, "Do you know who I am?"

"You are my captor, who has seized me from the shrine to suit his needs." The Firekeeper replied, "What is thy desire? My body? My soul?"

"I want to set you free." He said, "Make no mistake, I am not so simple-minded as the savages who work beneath me. I am Sulyvahn of Irithyll, and I wish to make you my queen."

"What?" The Firekeeper was confused, "What do you…"

"Remain calm, and I will make everything clear to you." Sulyvahn spoke, "The Fire fades, and soon, Dark will descend upon the world. When you were but a young girl, you were presented to the church to prevent this, to play a most important role in the preservation of this age by nurturing a Lord of Cinder to link the fire and resist the flow of nature. You have been taught that should the fire fade, the world will face eternal darkness, the stillbirth of souls, and an end to all existence." He said, his words echoing so many of her teachers, the very fact giving her goosebumps,

"Indeed. The Firekeeper's champion bears this duty, and it is my responsibility to serve him, to raise him up as a true heir to the fire. Why, then, are you doing this to me? Do you desire Darkness?"

"I do." Sulyvahn said, "I am afraid I must tell you a terrible truth, a truth many before you have heard, and many after you will also hear, because despite what the selfish gods desire, it must be known. When the Fire fades, and only Dark remains, the world most certainly does not end. Souls persist just fine without the flame, human souls, that is. The Age of Dark is the age of man, a godless age where the Flame has no power, and there have been many before this one. Each time, the world persisted well enough, until the flame was linked to restore the age of gods. However, beyond that, I have discovered that even if the flame were not linked in the Age of Man, even if the First Flame were to be scattered at its core, our world would still would not end. Your understanding of the Dark is fundamentally flawed, it has been made that way by the gods so they could hold onto their own power at immeasurable expense to humanity."

"No, you are trying to deceive me." The Firekeeper said, "If what you say is true, then-"

"The Link of Fire is a hollow charade, maintained by ignorance and fear." Sulyvahn said, "The Firekeepers of the past, your forbears, beings of peerless soul mastery, began to realize that even if the flame were to perish, there would always be embers to begin anew, naturally, and their own pace, without sacrifices and burnings and death. They committed the highest heresy of turning against their slavery and bringing the Dark, so they were punished with the removal of their eyes, and an even greater breaking of their will, every generation punished for believing they had a right to live."

"No-"

"What I say is the truth. You continue to cling to the belief your slavery, your degradation, is some form of high honor, or you deserve this treatment, because you have been made to believe that. Did you ever desire to be blinded? Was it your dream to have the life ripped from you, so you could be spent and discarded, to become less than human?"

"Please, stop this." The Firekeeper said, "Thy words cut deep, deeper than you can imagine, please-"

"I will not be silent!" Sulyvahn briefly raised his voice, his shout repelling the Firekeeper, before he calmed himself, "Do you see now? The reality of being a Firekeeper terrifies you. You have been taught to embrace defilement and shun your own free will. You are human, a beautiful young maiden, and your fellow humanity has thrown you out as a sacrificial lamb, to appease the gods and stave away the curse, but I tell you, the gods do not care." He said, "The curse is an engine to cull mankind and feed the fires, because they deemed themselves more worthy of living than mankind. The curse will claim those who doomed you to your fate regardless of how many sacrifices they make. I say, it has been long enough."

"You would destroy those who created our world?" The Firekeeper said, "What you say… it is inconceivable to rage against the heavens themselves. And you want me to share in this mad fantasy, of a world without gods? Without fire? To destroy it all."

"Yes." Sulyvahn said. "In my future, there are no Firekeepers. No burnings or resurrections for more burnings. No torment of undead or the curse. No Firekeepers, no Lords of Cinder, no gods, and no masters. Let the Dark come, and extinguish this dynasty built on ashes and death, so we can build a new world, a better world." Sulyvahn's hands wrapped around the Firekeeper, the woman drawing a sharp breath of surprise, "I am granting you a true honor: to reclaim your eyes, your name, and to become the mother of the true Age of Dark. With you at my side, the Lords of Cinder will fall alongside the flame, and all will be made right." The Firekeeper could not throw him off, but Sulyvahn removed his hands, "I do not expect you to understand right away. I have years of indoctrination to reverse before your mind is made clear, but however long it takes, I will show you the way."

"I will never aide a being so dark and angry as you," The Firekeeper said, "No matter what you force me to see, it is forbidden, and I will not do it."

"You're wrong." Sulyvahn said, heading away, "All humans desire to be unbound, and not suffer pointlessly. You are no different. I will teach you not to be afraid, and you will be set free. You will join me willingly, because I am right."

He closed the door behind him, latching it. The Firekeeper felt her way to the window, the moonlight outside lacking the warmth and gentleness of the sun she so seldom had the pleasure of feeling on her face.

She wanted to return to the shrine, away from this place. She did not want to be corrupted here, but these thoughts were crowded by Sulyvahn's words. There was something… strangely enticing about the words he spoke, and that was what frightened her the most of all.


End file.
